Ill 
da 


NORM  A 

•*.   ~     Xx/     *  %,  4      JL  -*    *, 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 


BOOKS  BY  NORMA  LORIMER 

THERE  WAS  A  KINO  IN  EGYPT 

THE  GOD'S  CARNIVAL 

ON  DESERT  ALTARS 

A  WIFE  Our  OF  EGYPT 

WITH  OTHER  EYES 

A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 


A   MENDER  OF 
IMAGES 


BY 

NORMA  LORIMER 

AUTHOR  OF 

"THE  GODS'  CARNIVAL,"  "A  WIFE  OUT  OF  EGYPT,"  "THERE  WAS  A  KING  IN 
EGYPT,"  "WITH  OTHER  EYES,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
BRENTANO'S 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY 

BHENTANO'? 
All  rights  reserved 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

PARTI 
CHAPTER  I 

ZITA  MAZZINI  and  her  brother  Salvatore  lived  in  a  two- 
roomed  house  in  the  main  street  of  Girgenti,  the  ancient 
Acragas,  the  Roman  Agrigentum. 

A  stranger  would  not  endorse  Pindar's  words  that  Acra- 
gas was  "the  fairest  of  mortal  cities,"  and  certainly  the 
surroundings  of  Zita's  home  were  not  fair;  indeed,  there 
was  much  that  was  ugly  quite  close  to  her  door — and  Sicily 
can  be  ugly.  But  Zita  herself  was  fair  and  to  her  Pindar's 
words  were  indisputable. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  Girgenti  was  the  only  city 
which  Zita  had  ever  seen,  added  to  which  she  knew  its  other 
face.  Girgenti,  like  everything  else  in  Sicily,  has  two 
faces.  Girgenti  was  her  "paese,"  and  to  a  Sicilian  what  is 
not  summed  up  in  that  sacred  word? 

Girgenti  is  set  on  a  hill  and  lies  between  the  mountains 
and  the  "wine-blue"  sea  of  Diodorus  Siculus.  Its  ugly  face 
tells  you  that  it  is  a  mining  city,  which  sulphur  has  made 
prosperous.  Its  beautiful  face  soars  up  from  mediaeval 
walls  which  look  over  the  historical  plain  of  splendour- 
loving  Acragas. 

Zita  loved  her  home,  which  meant  to  her,  as  it  does  to  all 
Italians,  the  locality  in  which  she  lived.  She  was  proud  of 
her  city,  which  had  perpetuated  as  a  city  part  of  the  Greek 
colony  whose  founders  came  from  Gela  in  B.  C.  592.  She 
knew  it  with  its  volta  f  accia  under  every  possible  condition, 
when  the  spring  rain  brought  a  harvest  of  flowers  into 
bloom  around  the  golden  temples  and  asphodels  make  a 
delicate  carpet  for  unseen  feet  to  tread. 

1 


2  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

She  also  knew  it  when  the  sirocco  raised  pyramids  of  dust 
on  the  white  roads  and  upset  the  nerves  of  the  people.  But 
Zita  was  young  and  strong ;  the  sirocco  left  her  untouched. 
But  it  affected  her  brother  Salvatore ;  while  it  blew  he  was 
nervous  and  depressed. 

Salvatore  was  employed  by  the  Archasological  authori- 
ties as  a  digger  and  excavator.  His  days  were  spent  in 
restoring  to  sight  the  buried  greatness  of  Girgenti.  He 
was  allowed  to  augment  his  wages,  which  scarcely  averaged 
one  franc  forty  per  day,  by  digging  for  himself  on  the 
outskirts  of  classic  sites  and  in  river  beds.  Whatever 
he  found,  whole  or  broken,  little  or  big,  he  was  bound  on 
oath  to  show  to  the  museum  authorities;  what  they  did 
not  wish  to  keep  for  the  museums  of  Sicily,  they  returned 
to  Salvatore,  who  sold  them  to  the  tourists  who  flocked  to 
the  temples  each  spring. 

This  arrangement  was  a  very  good  one.  It  secured  for 
the  authorities  the  services  of  an  exceptionally  intelligent 
digger,  while  it  gave  Salvatore  an  independent  interest  in 
his  work.  Of  course  he  could  not  have  held  the  post  if  he 
had  not  been  a  man  of  established  integrity.  His  father, 
Orestes  Mazzini,  had  been  an  authority  on  the  ancient  coins 
of  Sicily ;  he  had  acted  as  a  guide  and  interpreter  to  eminent 
visitors,  such  as  Professor  Freeman  and  Cardinal  Newman. 

If  the  saying  is  true,  that  to  love  a  country  is  to  under- 
stand it,  then  Orestes  Mazzini  understood  his  classic  Sicily. 

He  had  died  of  fever  while  he  was  still  a  young  man, 
leaving  his  wife,  a  delicate  creature  from  the  Island  of 
Ischia,  to  bring  up  little  Zita  and  her  boy  Salvatore  as  best 
she  could. 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  Salvatore,  who  had  at  a  very 
early  age  developed  a  passion  for  archaeology,  was  employed 
by  the  Government  as  a  digger. 

Each  day  when  Zita's  two-roomed  house  was  tidied  up  she 
would  turn  the  key  of  the  door,  which  opened  on  to  the 
street,  put  it  in  her  pocket  and  follow  her  brother  to  the 
site  of  his  work.  She  seldom  spent  many  hours  of  the  day 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  3 

in  her  cottage;  she  preferred  being  with  her  brother;  and 
to  tell  the  truth,  he  felt  happier  and  more  at  ease  when  she 
was  somewhere  within  sight  and  hearing.  He  did  not  do 
as  the  other  men  did,  when  they  left  their  young  wives  or 
daughters — lock  them  in  their  homes  and  take  the  key  in 
their  pockets.  Salvatore's  father  had  never  treated  his 
mother  in  this  Eastern  fashion,  which  has  been  handed  down 
from  the  Saracen  invasion. 

One  spring  day  Zita  was  preparing  to  go  to  her  brother ; 
she  was  putting  the  last  strip  of  an  elaborate  piece  of 
knitting,  which  was  to  form  about  the  seventeenth  part  of  a 
bed  quilt,  into  her  fig-basket  along  with  her  frugal  lunch. 
Her  house  had  been  swept  from  corner  to  corner,  with  a 
palm-leaf  broom  and  dusted  with  a  bunch  of  turkey 
feathers.  Her  beautiful  dark  hair  was  tucked  under  a 
bright  orange  handkerchief,  for  Zita  never  wore  a  hat. 
She  had  never  even  tried  one  on  her  pretty  head;  she  did 
not  belong  to  the  class  in  Sicily  to  whom  a  hat  gives  a 
social  standing.  In  Girgenti,  hats  were  not  seemly  for 
working  girls. 

Kerchiefed  and  smiling,  Zita  was  turning  the  key  in  her 
front  door.  Late  in  the  afternoon  she  would  return  to 
kindle  the  charcoal  and  prepare  her  brother's  supper. 

Something  made  her  hesitate  and  she  re-entered  the 
cottage.  A  picture  of  the  Madonna  hung  on  the  wall  close 
to  the  door ;  on  a  shelf  below  it  a  lighted  wick  was  floating 
in  a  Greek  saucer,  which  had  once  held  votive  offerings  to  a 
pagan  god.  Such  trifles  of  Greek  handcraft  were  cheaper 
for  domestic  purposes  than  anything  Zita  could  buy  in 
Girgenti. 

She  stood  before  the  picture  with  bowed  head.  For  a 
moment  a  look  of  tragedy  hung  on  her  eyelashes,  but  it  was 
only  for  a  moment.  When  her  prayer  was  finished  she 
picked  up  her  long  basket  and  left  the  cottage.  Before  the 
door  was  locked  the  shadow  of  the  tragedy  had  left  her 
lashes ;  the  girl  was  "La  Gioconda"  again. 

Greetings  were  called  out  to  her  as  she  hurried  along  the 


4  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

street,  for  everyone  knew  where  she  was  going  to  and  every- 
one loved  her.  Zita  was  "simpatica"  to  her  finger-tips; 
she  responded  to  the  finest  vibration  of  her  surroundings ; 
the  joys  and  troubles  of  her  neighbours  were  her  own.  Be- 
sides which  she  possessed  all  the  qualities  which  endear  a 
girl  to  a  people  who  have  inherited  the  worship  of  beauty. 

Look  at  her  as  she  walks,  her  basket  on  her  head — notice 
her  little  nose,  straight  drawn  from  brow  to  tip,  yet  with- 
out hint  of  severity;  look  at  the  curling  lips,  the  dented 
chin,  round  with  youth's  softness,  yet  moulded  by  the  sure 
hand  which  gave  Greece  her  glory.  It  is  not  difficult  to  see 
from  which  of  the  many  strains  in  Sicily  she  comes,  this 
child  of  the  South,  born  in  the  Acragas  of  the  ancients.  It 
is  good  to  look  at  the  classic  perfection  of  a  Greek  statue 
humanized  by  the  glow  of  health  and  laughter,  a  living 
Tanagra  figure  hurrying  down  to  the  plain  of  Acragas. 

Soon  Zita  had  left  the  sulphur  city  far  behind ;  it  towered 
above  her  in  the  distance,  medisevally  secure  on  its  long 
ridge  of  precipitous  rocks,  a  Zion  city,  fair  and  sublime. 
She  was  passing  the  Convent  of  St.  Nicola,  whose  stone- 
pine  marks  the  road  to  the  temples ;  she  was  quite  close  to 
the  ruin  of  an  ancient  Greek  house  which  lies  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  road,  when  she  heard  her  name  called  softly. 

"Zita,  little  Zita,  stop  a  moment." 

"Buon  giorno,  Signore." 

Zita  did  not  lift  her  eyes.  Salvatore  had  told  her  that 
his  work  that  day  would  be  at  the  far-off  Temple  of  Aescu- 
lapius; she  did  not  wish  to  linger,  as  she  had  just  enough 
time  to  reach  the  fragment  of  the  temple,  which  to-day  is 
incorporated  in  a  modern  farm,  before  lunch.  Besides,  the 
voice  that  had  called  so  persuasively  belonged  to  one  of  the 
"signori"  under  whose  direction  Salvatore  worked.  She 
knew  it  instantly. 

With  a  light  movement  the  man  who  had  called  her 
cleared  the  Greek  wall  and  was  at  the  girl's  side.  Zita's 
heart  was  fluttering  and  beating  like  a  little  bird  impris- 
oned in  a  human  hand.  The  Signore  laid  firm  fingers  on 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  5 

her  shoulder  and  turned  her  round  until  she  faced  the  en- 
trance to  the  Greek  house — a  mere  foundation  of  a  house, 
to  ordinary  eyes  only  a  mass  of  beautifully  cut  stones. 

"I  have  something  which  I  want  you  to  take  to  your 
brother,"  the  Signore  said.  His  hands  still  held  the  girl's 
shrinking  shoulders ;  her  small  breasts  were  rising  and 
falling  under  the  white  kerchief  of  her  bodice.  Tuned  to 
the  beauty  of  Greece,  he  saw  their  form  stripped  of  their 
modern  covering.  Zita  was  a  Greek  statuette  insulted  by 
clothes.  His  thoughts  undressed  her — he  saw  her  naked 
and  unspoilt ;  he  would  have  stripped  her  in  the  open  sun- 
light and  set  her  on  a  Greek  pedestal  in  the  Greek  house. 

Zita  was  silent.  Some  strange  part  of  her  enjoyed  what 
she  greatly  feared,  the  touch  of  the  man's  hand  and  the 
gentleness  of  his  voice.  She  wished  that  she  could  leave  him 
and  fly  like  one  of  the  white  falcons  overhead  to  the  safe 
presence  of  her  brother.  Her  southern  blood  needed  no 
provoking ;  even  while  she  longed  to  run  away  from  him  as 
quickly  as  her  young  legs  would  carry  her,  she  felt  more 
alive  and  responsive  than  she  had  ever  felt  in  her  life. 

When  her  companion  had  led  her  a  little  way  back  from 
the  high  road,  further  into  the  interior  of  the  excavated 
house,  he  said  persuasively,  and  at  the  same  time  authorita- 
tively, "Sit  down,  Zita.  What  makes  you  so  afraid?" 
His  eyes  laughed  at  her  foolishness,  while  they  caressed  her 
body. 

Zita  sat  down,  but  she  did  not  answer.  He  took  her 
basket  from  her  head  and  placed  it  behind  her  back.  He 
had  seated  himself  beside  her  on  one  of  the  low  foundation 
walls  of  the  house.  Zita,  who  was  still  silent,  plucked  some 
mauve  flowers  from  a  bush  of  wild  thyme.  A  bee  disturbed 
in  its  honey-gathering,  flew  up  into  her  face;  she  gave  a 
little  scream  and  her  companion  drove  off  the  bee.  As  he 
did  so  he  looked  into  her  eyes  and  said : 

"Wise  little  bee,  to  prefer  such  pretty  lips  to  wild 
thyme !  An  intelligent  bee,  Zita  mia." 

Zita  blushed.     Her  heart  was  distressed.     Why  did  her 


6  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

brother's  employer  speak  to  her  like  that?  Why  did  his 
eyes  always  say  more  than  his  words  ? 

"Prego,  Signore,  will  it  please  you  to  give  what  you 
wish  me  to  take  to  my  brother?  Even  now  he  is  expecting 
me  at  the  farm." 

"You  must  not  go  all  that  way  alone,  child."  The 
Signore  knew  what  "the  farm"  meant. 

"I  am  not  afraid,  Signore." 

"You  are  not  afraid  of  the  farm  dogs  and  of  all  that 
rough  walk,  and  yet  a  little  honey-bee  made  you  cry  out! 
Zita  mia,  you  are  delicious." 

"Prego,  Signore,  I  was  startled."  She  tried  to  rise  to 
her  feet,  but  the  Signore  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder  and 
prevented  her.  He  did  it  in  a  commanding  manner ;  he  was 
her  brother's  employer. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you,  Zita.    Sit  still." 

"Prego,  Signore." 

"You  are  a  good  little  girl,  Zita,  and  a  very  industrious 
one.  I  know  that  inside  that  bundle  there  is  some  fine 
knitting;  I  know  that  these  little  hands,"  he  placed  his  own 
on  hers,  "will  be  busy  all  day  long." 

"Si,  Signore."  Zita's  beautiful  profile  was  not  turned ; 
not  once  did  she  let  her  eyes  meet  the  eyes  of  the  Signore. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  "what  is  all  this  knitting  for?  Do 
you  sell  it?" 

"Sell  it?"  Zita's  eyes  were  wide  with  wonder.  "No, 
Signore — it  is  for  my  sposalizio." 

"Then  you  are  going  to  be  married?" 

"Spero  di  si,  Signore"  (I  hope  so).  Zita  looked  pro- 
foundly wise,  but  surprised  at  the  question. 

"Is  the  day  fixed?" 

"Ma,  Signore.    I  have  not  met  him  yet." 

Her  companion  laughed. 

"Dear  little  Zita — you  are  going  to  be  married,  but  you 
have  not  yet  met  your  man?" 

"No,  Signore."  Zita  spoke  simply;  she  saw  no  humour 
in  the  situation.  Of  course  she  was  going  to  be  married; 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  7 

she  was  healthy  and  young,  and  all  the  world  had  told  her 
she  was  pretty  and  good. 

"You  will  marry  and  settle  down  in  Girgenti?" 

"Spero  di  si,  Signore."    Her  eyes  brightened. 

"Don't  you  want  to  see  the  great  world,  Zita  mia?"  He 
spoke  absently.  "You  have  seen  nothing  of  it  but  that 
ancient  city  up  there  in  the  clouds.  There  is  a  wonderful 
world  waiting  for  you,  little  girl." 

"Prego,  Signore,  I  have  seen  Porto  Empedocle!"  She 
spoke  proudly ;  his  words  hurt  her. 

Her  companion  laughed  tenderly.  "You  dear  little 
donna!  Porto  Empedocle!  Yes,  you  have  seen  that  sul- 
phur port  and  Girgenti — they  are  your  world." 

Zita  was  silent. 

"Don't  you  want  to  see  the  big  cities  on  the  Continent?" 

Sicilians  always  speak  of  Italy  as  the  "Continent." 

Zita  shook  her  head.  "Prego,  Signore,  I  think  for 
humble  people  it  does  not  do  them  much  good  to  see  the 
world.  When  our  Girgenti  boys  return  from  America,  with 
money  in  their  pockets,  Salvatore  says  they  have  lost 
everything  else;  they  are  too  rich  to  be  polite;  they  are 
vulgar." 

"In  vero,  Zita  mia,  America  does  not  improve  the  young 
Sicilian.  But  I  was  thinking  of  your  Italian  cities,  of 
Rome,  Naples,  Florence." 

Zita  again  shook  her  head  and  looked  at  her  simple  dress. 
"Salvatore  dreams  all  day  and  all  night  of  seeing  Rome  and 
Athens,  Signore,  but  for  me,  if  I  see  Palermo  some  day,  I 
shall  be  content." 

"Who  knows,  Gioconda?  The  gods  are  kind  to  those 
who  love  mirth.  Put  away  that  serious  face  and  smile 
again — you  haven't  smiled  since  I  met  you.  Do  I  deserve 
those  sad  eyes?" 

"Ma,  Signore,  but  I  must  go  to  my  brother.  Please  do 
not  detain  me ;  I  shall  cause  him  anxiety." 

"Unkind  Zita,  you  have  all  this  spring  day  to  spend 
knitting  and  watching  your  brother  at  his  work.  I  have 


8  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

seen  you  sitting  under  the  big  fig-tree,  knit,  knit,  knitting ; 
I  have  often  wondered  what  your  little  head  was  full  of! 
Tell  me,  child,  what  do  you  think  about  while  you  sit  so 
patiently?  Your  eyes  are  sometimes  grave  and  thoughtful, 
sometimes  they  laugh." 

Zita  blushed.  "Indeed  I  cannot  tell  you — my  thoughts 
are  too  foolish  for  a  clever  Signore.  They  come  into  my 
head  and  fly  out  again  so  quickly  that  I  do  not  remember 
what  I  have  been  thinking  about ;  they  are  like  my  dreams, 
forgotten  when  I  wake." 

"I  am  sure  they  are  pretty  thoughts,  for  you  smile  so 
gaily.  The  boys  call  you  'La  Gioconda' — you  see,  I  know 
all  about  you,  piccola  donna." 

"If  I  smile,  Signore,  how  can  I  help  it?  When  I  see 
the  little  kids  skipping,  about  the  ruins,  so  full  of  fun  and 
frolic ;  or  when  I  tell  myself  stories  about  the  clouds  chas- 
ing each  other  up  in  the  high  sky,  hurrying  away  to  the 
land  which  is  over  the  edge  of  the  world — the  clouds  are  my 
chariots,  the  people  of  my  smiles  are  seated  in  them.  It  is 
when  I  am  thinking  about  these  foolish  ignorant  things  that 
I  smile,  Signore.  I  have  so  little  learning ;  I  do  not  know 
enough  to  make  me  serious  like  Salvatore." 

"Dio  mio,  my  little  Zita !  You  are  apologizing  for  your 
smiles !  You  need  not  be  ashamed  because  you  have  not  the 
grave  face  of  a  Madonna.  It  is  because  of  your  gift  of 
mirth  and  love  of  life,  child,  that  I  want  to  sit  and  talk  to 
you ;  you  make  me  forget." 

"Prego,  Signore.  .  .  ."  Zita  could  say  no  more. 
She  could  not  contradict  the  learned  Signore,  but  she  wished 
that  he  would  not  talk  to  her  any  more. 

"You  know  that  the  ancients  called  your  island  'the 
laughing  land' —  it  was  their  name  for  it.  But  the  women 
and  the  men  in  Sicily  to-day  are  very  grave  and  unmirth- 
ful." 

"There  is  much  sadness,  Signore." 

"Yes,  Fate  has  treated  her  pitilessly ;  she  has  had  many 
cruel  conquerors."  He  paused.  "In  one  of  the  basketfuls 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  9 

of  rubbish  which  Salvatore  picks  up  in  the  ruins,  you  can 
trace  the  hand  of  five  civilisations,  civilisations  which  have 
left  their  scars  on  the  people." 

Zita's  quick  brain  visualized  the  fragments  of  antiques 
which  explained  his  words. 

"The  burden  of  tyranny  and  cruelty  have  told  on  the 
expression  and  character  of  the  people ;  that  is  why  so  many 
of  them  are  grave  and  suspicious.  But  you,  Zitina,  you  are 
different.  You  are  a  child  of  ancient  Greece,  a  daughter  of 
'the  laughing  land.'  When  these  temples  were  perfect, 
when  this  Greek  house  was  inhabited  by  the  old  Dorians 
from  Gela,  you  were  a  daughter  of  the  house ;  you  went  to 
the  temples  to  worship,  not  to  watch  your  brother  picking 
up  bits  of  terracotta  and  broken  images.  My  little  Greek 
Zita,  this  is  your  true  home,  this  Greek  house  with  its 
mosaiced  floors,"  he  pointed  to  the  design  of  mosaic  at  their 
feet,  "and  wide-columned  courtyard,  this  is  your  real  home, 
not  that  white  cottage  up  in  Girgenti."  He  turned  his  head 
to  where  the  city  towered  up  above  them,  sublimely  still  and 
clear. 

"It  is  beautiful  to  hear  you  talk,  Signore,  but  much  of 
what  you  say  I  only  half  understand.  My  true  home  is  with 
Salvatore." 

"I  mean  your  spiritual  home,  Zita.  For  some  unknown 
reason  your  reincarnated  natural  body  is  now  living  in  Gir- 
genti ;  your  present-day  upbringing  has  made  you  a  mod- 
est, retiring  little  Sicilian  girl,  but  at  heart  you  are  a  Greek 
Hedonist." 

Zita's  eyes  expressed  her  fears. 

"But  you  are  so  unhappy,  child.  Andiamo  (come 
along)."  He  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Prego,  Signore,  I  am  not  unhappy,  mi  scusi." 

"Only  unhappily  happy — is  that  it?"  His  eyes  looked 
into  hers  and  their  richer  language  told  her  his  meaning. 
She  was  only  unhappily  happy  because — well,  because  she 
dared  not  be  happy ! 

"Si,  Signore,  grazie." 


10  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

"You  would  like  to  allow  yourself  to  be  happy  and  to 
talk  to  me  as  I  want  you  to  talk,  freely  and  naturally  ?" 

Zita's  eyes  dwelt  on  his ;  he  was  kindling  the  first  flame  of 
passion. 

"You  would  like  to  be  kind  to  me,  when  all  I  ask  can  so 
easily  be  given — just  to  sit  here  quietly  and  let  me  enjoy 
your  smiles  and  unspoilt  beliefs." 

"Si,  Signore,  it  is  always  pleasant  to  be  kind." 

"Grave  little  donna,  come  along."  He  lifted  her  as 
lightly  as  if  she  had  been  a  bird  over  the  low  wall  which 
surrounded  the  mosaiced  floor  and  together  they  passed 
through  a  large  courtyard,  where  twenty-eight  bases  of  the 
ancient  columns  which  had  once  surrounded  it,  when  it  had 
formed  a  colonnade  in  front  of  the  bachelor's  sleeping 
quarters,  were  still  intact.  Out  of  the  colonnade  they 
passed  into  a  smaller  court,  which  in  its  turn  took  them  into 
an  outer  hall,  which  led  directly  on  to  the  street. 

In  Greek  days  it  must  have  been  a  very  comfortable  man- 
sion; to-day  it  is  but  a  herb-scented  ruin,  where  bees  and 
blue  butterflies  flit  about  the  southern  vegetation,  which 
has  taken  a  fancy  to  the  classic  stones. 

As  they  walked  towards  the  temples,  Zita  was  silent  and 
her  tall  companion  was  very  dignified.  He  did  not  distress 
her  by  saying  things  which  she  knew  he  would  not  say  if  her 
brother  had  been  walking  with  them;  he  told  her  instead 
simple  legends  about  the  temples  and  about  almost  every 
step  of  the  ground  over  which  they  picked  their  way — a 
very  rough  way  and  a  very  long  one.  The  Signore  had 
the  gift  of  tongues  and  a  very  human  appreciation  of  his- 
toric legends  and  folk-lore. 

When  at  length  they  reached  the  farm  where  Salvatore 
was  working,  the  Signore  called  out,  "  Ecco,  Salvatore ! 
Here  is  Zita — I  detained  her.  I  wanted  her  to  bring  this  to 
you  and  then  I  thought  I  would  bring  it  myself.  I  want  to 
speak  to  you." 

Salvatore  thanked  his  employer  as  he  took  the  new  tool 
which  he  held  out  to  him.  Then  they  quickly  entered  into 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  11 

a  technical  discussion  which  excluded  Zita,  who  only  too 
gladly  took  herself  off  to  a  pleasant  spot  and  opened  her 
bundle.  The  fennel  and  the  bread  were  laid  carefully  in  the 
shade;  the  wine  for  their  lunch  Salvatore  would  purchase 
for  one  soldo  at  the  farm.  When  the  frugal  lunch  was  laid 
in  readiness,  out  came  her  knitting.  With  a  still  fluttering 
heart  and  beating  pulses,  she  began  to  work  at  such  a  pace 
that  the  date  of  her  "sposalizio"  might  very  well  have  been 
settled  for  that  day  week. 

Poor  little  heart,  so  brutally  disturbed !  It  was  not  the 
first  time  that  the  Signore,  who  was  such  a  good  master  to 
her  brother,  had  caused  her  the  same  unaccountable  pleas- 
ure, the  same  indefinite  pain.  A  Sicilian  girl  is  a  woman  in 
her  cradle.  Zita  knew  perfectly  well,  although  she  had  no 
mother  to  tell  her,  all  the  unspoken  things  which  the 
Signore's  eyes  had  implored.  She  feared  him  and  yet  if  the 
trust  must  be  told,  she  enjoyed  the  fear.  She  was  relieved 
and  glad  to  be  away  from  him  and  yet  her  day  was  fuller 
for  having  seen  him.  He  always  roused  the  same  thoughts 
in  her,  thoughts  which  sprang  into  being  with  the 
touch  of  his  hand  and  the  request  in  his  eyes.  Life  had 
been  very  vital  as  they  walked  together  under  the  gay 
sunlight. 

As  she  knitted,  her  eyes  were  not  raised  to  her  chariots 
in  the  clouds ;  to-day  her  world  beyond  the  edge  of  the 
world  was  a  strange  world,  a  world  filled  with  new  dangers 
and  possibilities.  With  bent  head  and  industrious  hands, 
she  was  conscious  of  the  fact  that  the  eyes  of  the  Signore 
were  even  now  constantly  watching  her. 

He  was  in  Zita's  eyes  elegant  and  very  grazioso,  as  she 
expressed  it.  But  why  did  he  care  to  spend  his  time  in 
talking  to  a  poor  girl  like  herself?  Why  did  he  pretend 
that  her  ignorant  company  cheered  him  and  did  him  good  ? 
She  almost  made  up  her  mind  to  tell  her  brother  that  when 
he  was  out  of  hearing  the  Signore  spoke  to  her  and  made 
pretty  speeches  to  her.  But  no  sooner  had  she  determined 
to  tell  him,  than  she  deceived  herself  into  the  belief  that 


12  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

he  would  only  laugh  at  her  and  tell  her  that  she  was  a  vain 
baby. 

And  so  the  hours  wore  on,  but  Zita's  mirth  did  not  return, 
no,t  until  the  Signore  had  left  the  farm  and  Salvatore 
joined  her  for  their  mid-day  meal.  When  he  did  so,  he 
flung  himself  down  on  the  ground  beside  her  and  looked 
straight  up  into  the  sky,  his  clasped  hando  behind  his  head. 
Zita  drew  the  blade  of  a  peasant's  knife  from  its  wooden 
sheath,  and  cut  up  the  bulbous  white  root  of  the  fennel ; 
when  it  was  prepared  she  handed  a  portion  of  it  to  her 
brother  with  a  large  slice  of  rough  bread. 

Salvatore' s  white  teeth  dug  eagerly  into  the  fresh  vege- 
table, which  was  deliciously  cool  and  appetising.  His 
breakfast  had  consisted  of  a  cup  of  black  coffee. 

Zita  too  ate  her  fennel  with  the  healthy  appetite  of  the 
meagrely  fed. 

The  brother  and  sister  were  devoted  to  each  other.  Zita 
thought  Salvatore  a  hundred  times  more  learned  than  he 
was — and  he  was  no  mean  scholar — and  the  handsomest 
man  in  Girgenti;  Salvatore  loved  his  little  sister  with  a 
father's  as  well  as  a  brother's  devotion.  For  six  years  he 
had  been  mother,  father  and  brother  to  her,  for  he  was 
seven  years  her  senior.  Zita  was  just  seventeen. 

Salvatore  was  proud  of  her  refinement  and  had  taken 
great  pains  to  carry  on  her  education  himself,  after  her 
ordinary  school  term  had  come  to  an  end.  He  knew  that 
she  was  lovely  and  gracious  and  that  her  movements  were 
refined  and  elegant.  The  idea  that  Zita's  life  was  a  dull 
one  for  a  beautiful  girl  had  never  dawned  upon  him.  How 
could  she  be  dull  when  everyone  who  knew  her  called  her 
"La  Gioconda?" 

When  Salvatore  had  washed  down  his  meal  with  a  long 
draught  of  red  wine,  he  told  his  sister  that  the  next  day  the 
Signore  wanted  him  to  go  to  Monserrato,  a  long  hill  which 
lies  between  Girgenti  and  Porto  Empedocle.  Now  Porto 
Empedocle  is  the  sea-port  for  Girgenti  and  the  surround- 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  13 

ing  country ;  you  can  see  its  harbour  stretching  out  into  the 
African  sea  from  almost  any  point  in  the  landscape. 

"You  will  be  away  all  day,  fratello  mio?" 

"Gia — it  will  be  dark  before  I  get  back." 

Zita  was  silent ;  but  her  brother  did  not  notice  her  new 
mood  of  abstraction  because  he  himself  had  business  on  his 
mind  which  kept  him  preoccupied. 

For  some  days  Salvatore  had  looked  worried  and  been 
unusually  silent.  Zita  had  concluded  that  his  work  was 
more  exacting  and  difficult  than  usual. 

Salvatore  was  by  nature  a  dignified  Sicilian ;  his  fine  cast 
of  countenance  was  as  serious  as  Zita's  was  mirthful.  If 
he  had  been  well  off,  he  would  probably  have  led  the  life  of 
a  retired  student.  It  was  perhaps  well  for  him  that  he  was 
not,  for  he  was  not  very  robust  physically,  and  it  is  better 
to  study  Greece  in  Sicily,  under  the  blue  of  her  southern 
sky  and  in  the  sunlight  of  her  hills,  than  in  a  museum  or 
university.  He  was  a  direct  descendant  of  the  great  Maz- 
zini  whose  faithfulness  to  an  ideal  has  given  modern  Italy 
her  unity. 

"You  will  take  care  of  the  house  ?" 

Zita  nodded  her  head ;  she  knew  what  her  brother  meant. 

"You  might  clean  these — there  are  one  or  two  out  of  the 
common."  He  handed  her  some  ancient  coins,  still  em- 
bedded in  soil  and  cement.  Zita  took  the  coins  in  her 

hand.     "And  if  the  Signore  comes  to  the  house,  tell  him. 
»> 

Zita's  exclamation  stopped  him.  "Ma,  Salvatore!" 
Her  eyes  dropped. 

"It  will  only  be  to  leave  a  packet  for  me — he  won't  hurt 
you,  baby." 

Zita  tried  to  laugh,  but  failed  because  of  her  desire  and 
yet  her  reluctance  to  tell  him  about  the  Signore. 

Little  more  was  said.  Salvatore  gave  himself  over  to  a 
sound  sleep.  His  mid-day  sleep  was  as  necessary  to  him  as 
his  food.  A  Sicilian  can  live  on  surprisingly  little  if  he 
gets  plenty  of  sleep  and  sunshine. 


14  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

When  they  returned  to  the  city,  an  evening  light  was 
bestowing  upon  it  a  radiant  charm,  a  spiritual  calm  graced 
its  ancient  outlines.  The  sulphur  city  of  discontent  and 
"mala  gente"  was  a  fair  Jerusalem,  golden  and  immortal. 
Their  walk  was  a  long  one  and  they  had  no  donkeys  to 
carry  them,  but  they  were  both  young  and  Zita  at  least 
was  tireless. 

Familiar  classic  sites  served  for  milestones.  Their  backs 
were  to  the  tideless  sea,  which  formed  a  background  for 
the  temples,  which  were  begun  by  the  tyrant  Thcron  in  the 
days  when  Acragas  was  a  city  of  fashion  and  renown. 
Before  them  lay  the  long  hill,  which  wound  its  way  up  to 
the  city.  It  was  close  upon  sundown  when  they  neared  its 
wall,  where  little  farms  cluster  beneath  its  shelter,  farms 
which  look  curiously  Eastern  to  northern  eyes. 

The  brother  and  sister  had  exchanged  many  greetings 
with  neighbours,  who  passed  them  riding  on  their  well-con- 
ditioned animals,  for  "the  orphans,"  as  they  were  called, 
were  favourites  both  in  the  country  and  in  the  town.  Their 
festa  table  was  often  graced  by  a  gift  from  a  generous 
farmer's  wife  or  the  prosperous  proprietor  of  a  patisseria. 
They  possessed  qualities  which  command  affection,  and  they 
were  orphans,  which  in  Sicily  means  that  they  were  the 
children  of  every  mother's  heart. 

They  had  talked  little  to  one  another.  Salvatore  was 
tongue-tied  because  Zita  had  to  be  told  something  which  he 
did  not  know  how  to  tell  her,  and  Zita  was  so  wrapped  up 
in  her  own  thoughts  that  she  was  ignorant  of  how  silent 
she  had  been. 

"I  will  tell  her  to-morrow  night,  when  I  return,"  Sal- 
vatore kept  saying  to  himself.  "Nothing  can  be  done 
until  to-morrow."  He  heaved  a  sigh,  well  content  to  post- 
pone the  unpleasant  duty. 

"What  a  deep  sigh,  Salvatore  mio!  Are  you  very 
tired?" 

"What  did  you  say?"  he  asked  anxiously.  They  were 
speaking  Sicilian.  As  a  rule  Salvatore  made  Zita  speak 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  15 

Italian,  even  when  they  were  alone  together;  it  was  part 
of  her  education. 

"You  give  such  a  deep  sigh,  fratello  mio." 

"I  was  thinking." 

Zita  looked  at  him  with  concern.  "Salvatore,  you  have 
not  been  so  well  lately.  What  troubles  you?"  She  slipped 
her  hand  in  his,  country  fashion. 

"The  future,  little  sister — our  future." 

"After  death,  Salvatore?" 

He  laughed.     "Not  so  serious  as  that,  baby." 

"Then  why  trouble?  The  Blessed  Virgin  keeps  a 
mother's  eye  on  all  orphans.  It  is  because  you  are  over- 
tired— you  work  too  late;  give  over  your  night  studies 
for  a  little  time,  Salvatore." 

"No,  no,  baby,  I  am  not  overworking.  The  hill  is 
steep  and  I  was  thinking  while  I  walked." 

Zita  held  his  hand  more  closely.  "You  know,  fratello 
mio,  you  are  my  dear  world.  When  you  sigh  it  trembles, 
when  you  look  too  tired  or  too  grave  it  grows  cold  and  I 
am  afraid.  Often,  when  I  have  been  asleep  for  many 
hours,  I  wake  and  hear  your  pen  write,  write,  writing, 
and  the  leaves  of  your  big  museum  books  turn,  turn, 
turning.  It  is  true,  Salvatore." 

"Some  day,  piccola  donna,  I  shall  not  need  to  burn 
the  midnight  oil." 

"Sperro  di  si,  fratello  mio." 

They  were  separated  by  a  man  guiding  a  strong  ass 
laden  with  two  jars,  which  filled  the  panniers  hanging 
from  its  sides.  They  had  come  to  a  part  of  the  road 
where  such  a  sight  is  very  usual,  for  the  majority  of 
householders  in  Girgenti  have  to  go  down  the  hill  to 
fetch  water  each  night  from  the  well.  Women  go  to 
it  in  threes  and  fours,  carrying  their  water-pitchers  on 
their  heads,  eheap  household  utensils  of  a  pure  classic 
form. 

As  Salvatore  caught  sight  of  the  jars,  he  started  as 
though  he  had  never  seen  a  donkey  carrying  water  before. 


16  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

He  stopped  and  gazed  at  them  as  if  he  expected  to  see 
some  strange  object  jump  out  of  the  jars.  Then  pulling 
himself  together  he  talked  cheerfully  to  Zita  as  they 
mounted  to  the  long  street  of  the  town. 

When  they  got  home  Zita  cooked  their  evening  meal 
of  polenta  and  fried  artichokes.  After  it  was  eaten 
Salvatore  devoted  himself  to  his  studies,  while  Zita  darned 
his  socks.  Their  cottage  was  so  small  that  their  Mass 
clothes  had  to  be  kept  in  a  tin  box  and  the  antiques  which 
they  had  for  sale  in  a  gaily-painted  wooden  one,  a  typical 
Sicilian  chest. 

Salvatore  slept  on  a  couch  which  he  had  made  for  him- 
self in  the  room  which  served  them  for  kitchen  and  living 
room. 

When  Zita  began  to  nod  over  her  work,  Salvatore  sent 
her  to  bed.  Many  hours  after  she  was  asleep,  he  could 
still  be  seen  in  the  quiet  cottage,  seated  at  the  wooden 
table,  with  his  books  in  front  of  him  and  his  thoughts  far 
away  from  his  surroundings.  He  was  a  serious  youth,  this 
son  of  modern  Girgenti;  it  could  not  be  said  of  him,  as 
the  great  Empedocles  said  of  his  ancestors,  that  the  Acra- 
gantines  built  their  houses  as  if  they  were  to  live  for 
ever,  but  gave  themselves  up  to  pleasure  and  luxuries 
as  if  they  were  to  die  to-morrow. 


CHAPTER  II 

IN  the  afternoon  of  the  following  day  a  motor-oar  stopped 
at  the  Casa  Salvatore.  Everyone  in  the  district  and  in  the 
city  knew  the  cottage  by  that  name. 

Zita  answered  the  loud  knock  at  her  door  with  throb- 
bing pulses  and  nervous  eyes.  Cars  were  not  common  in 
Girgenti — indeed,  there  was  only  one  besides  that  of 
"il  Signore,"  whose  work  often  necessitated  long  excur- 
sions across  the  Island.  The  Government  supplied  him 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  17 

with  the  car  and  petrol.  It  had  stopped  at  her  door 
before* 

II  Signore  smiled  at  Zita's  troubled  face  as  he  held  out 
the  packet  which  Salvatore  had  mentioned.  Whatever  it 
was,  it  was  carefully  done  up  in  a  tin  box,  which  had  once 
held  cigarettes. 

"Put  that  safely  away,  little  Zita,  and  then  turn  the 
key  in  your  door  and  come  along  with  me."  He  spoke 
authoritatively. 

"Prego,  Signore,"  Zita  shrank  back  into  the  house. 

"Do  as  you  are  told,"  he  said,  almost  sternly.  "  Salva- 
tore is  expecting  us.  I  will  drive  you  to  Empedocle,  where 
he  will  meet  us.  He  is  to  come  on  there  from  Monser- 
rato." 

Zita  still  hesitated  and  dropped  her  eyes. 

"Don't  you  want  a  drive  on  this  fine  day?" 

Zita  had  never  been  in  an  automobile  in  her  life,  so  of 
course  she  wanted  a  drive.  Besides,  the  cottage  was  dull 
and  until  Salvatore  returned  she  must  sit  in  it. 

"You  know  quite  well,  little  Zita,  that  you  are  dying  to 
come.  I  won't  throw  you  out  and  I  have  brought  a  coat. 
You  will  require  it  later  on." 

"Oh  no,  Signore!"  The  coat  alarmed  Zita;  it  was  the 
coat  of  a  great  lady ;  it  was  not  for  her. 

"Then  come  as  you  are,  until  we  are  out  of  the  town. 
Yes,  that  will  be  best.  I  will  call  at  the  druggist  and  tell 
him  that  I  am  taking  you  to  your  brother,  who  requires 
some  magnesia  for  his  work.  Signor  Naldo  will  tell  every- 
one else."  He  laughed. 

Zita  still  deliberated.  It  was  a  strange  thing  to  do,  to 
drive  in  an  automobile  with  a  gentleman  all  alone,  but  what 
could  she  do?  Was  Salvatore  willing  for  her  to  do  it? 
Had  he  agreed? 

"Come  along,  child — get  in." 

Zita  felt  herself  lifted  quickly  into  the  motor,  but  to  her 
relief  the  Signore  did  not  get  in  beside  her;  he  sat  by  him- 
self in  the  driver's  front  seat.  As  they  whirled  through 


18  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

the  town,  the  girl  did  not  see  a  single  face  she  knew ;  being 
siesta  hour  almost  everyone  was  asleep  and  the  houses  were 
shut.  There  was  not  even  a  dog  in  the  street.  The  drug- 
gist's was  closed. 

"There  is  no  need  to  go  in,"  the  Signore  said.  "Tongues 
won't  wag,  carissima." 

"Ma,  Signore,  my  brother's  magnesia." 

The  signore  did  not  answer.  He  only  drove  the  car  still 
faster.  Probably  he  had  not  heard  her  and  Zita  could 
make  no  further  protest. 

As  soon  as  they  had  left  the  city,  the  splendour  of  the 
sunshine  and  the  pleasure  of  rushing  through  the  air  in  so 
new  and  wonderful  a  manner,  drove  all  doubts  and  appre- 
hensions from  her  mind.  She  felt  like  a  princess  in  a  fairy 
story.  It  was  exciting  to  her  young  blood  to  rush  past  all 
the  places  she  knew  so  well,  just  as  if  they  all  lay  close 
together,  while  she  knew  that  they  lay  miles  and  miles 
apart.  Her  spirits  rose  with  leaps  and  bounds.  The 
speed  and  the  fresh  air  went  to  her  head;  the  glory  of 
the  day  rushed  through  her  veins  like  wine,  it  dazzled  her 
senses.  The  light  and  the  speed  and  the  beauty  of  the 
laughing  land  were  enough  to  intoxicate  anyone.  It 
seemed  to  Zita  that  Heaven  could  offer  her  no  greater 
pleasure,  and  her  pleasure  was  not  spoilt  by  any  attention 
from  the  Signore,  who  was  so  engrossed  in  his  car,  that 
he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  her  presence. 

They  passed  many  beautiful  and  ancient  things,  for  the 
landscape  is  classic,  every  step  of  it,  from  high  Girgenti  to 
the  dead  city  in  the  plain,  and  beyond,  where  the  blue  ocean 
travels  to  the  very  walls  of  Carthage. 

Soon  the  way  became  less  familiar  to  Zita,  for  they  were 
nearing  the  port  and  she  had  only  once  been  to  Porto 
Empedocle.  Mules  laden  with  yellow  blocks  of  sulphur 
made  an  unending  procession  as  they  wound  their  way 
from  the  mining  station  to  the  town. 

At  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  the  Signore  stopped  the 
car  at  the  door  of  a  very  ordinary,  quiet-looking  house, 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  19 

a  little  off  the  main  thoroughfare.  After  a  rapid  glance 
up  and  down  the  street,  he  jumped  out  of  the  car  and 
opened  its  door  for  Zita.  Immediately  all  the  fears  which 
had  been  hushed  and  forgotten  came  to  life  again.  Where 
was  Salvatore?  She  looked  at  the  Signore  anxiously. 

"Mio  fratello?"  was  all  she  said. 

He  saw  her  anxiety.  "I  will  go  and  find  Salvatore. 
Come  and  have  something  to  eat  first — he  won't  be  long." 

"Grazie,  Signore."    Zita  shook  her  head. 

"What  nonsense,  puppidda  mia!  The  drive  has  given 
me  an  appetite — you  must  be  hungry  too." 

The  Signore  walked  into  the  house.  It  was  a  small 
osteria  (inn),  yet  no  stranger  would  have  thought  so,  but 
for  the  branch  of  dried  olive  leaves  which  it  sported  over 
the  front  door. 

A  good-natured-looking,  heavy-stomached  man  instantly 
appeared.  He  greeted  the  Signore  with  a  familiar  and  at 
the  same  time  respectful  "Buon  giorno." 

The  Signore  spoke  a  few  words  to  him,  which  Zita  did 
not  hear,  then  making  her  go  on  in  front  of  him,  he  hurried 
her  upstairs  to  a  room  which  had  evidently  been  set  apart 
for  their  use.  The  girl's  southern  intelligence  took  in  every 
appointment  of  it.  The  blood  rushed  to  her  cheeks,  but  as 
she  glanced  at  the  table  for  the  second  time  a  sigh  of  relief 
came  from  her  oppressed  heart.  There  were  three  wine 
glasses,  not  two,  standing  on  a  brass  tray,  which  also  held 
a  bottle  of  Marsala.  Evidently  the  landlord  knew  that 
Salvatore  was  expected.  A  flat  cake,  decorated  with  can- 
died fruit,  and  some  tangerine  oranges,  were  placed  beside 
the  wine.  A  very  tempting  repast  for  a  poor  girl,  who 
seldom  enjoyed  the  luxury  of  a  sweetmeat.  A  small  white 
cloth  was  spread  over  the  coloured  one  of  tinselled  tapes- 
try; heavy  curtains,  draped  in  Spanish  fashion,  darkened 
the  room. 

When  the  door  was  shut,  the  Signore  threw  himself 
down  on  the  couch  which  occupied  a  large  portion  of  the 
pretentiously  furnished  room. 


20  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

"Come  and  sit  beside  me,  puppidda  mia,  and  tell  me  if 
you  enjoyed  the  ride." 

He  put  his  arm  round  the  girl's  waist  and  drew  her 
reluctantly  to  him. 

"No,  sit  down  and  talk  to  me.  Don't  stand  looking  at 
me  with  solemn  eyes.  I  won't  bite,  although  you  are  a 
tempting  morsel."  He  had  pulled  off  her  headkerchief  and 
looked  admiringly  at  her  hair.  As  he  repeated  the  words, 
"How  did  you  enjoy  the  drive?"  Zita  was  sitting  beside 
him  like  a  quivering  bird.  "Was  it  exciting?" 

"Si,  Signore,  it  was  wonderful;  it  was  like  Heaven." 

"You  were  not  afraid?" 

Her  eyes  scorned  the  idea. 

He  put  his  hand  on  her  hair.  "I  should  like  to  see  all 
this  hair  of  yours  hanging  down,  piccola  Madonnina." 
His  eyes  caressed  the  dark  head. 

Zita  was   tongue-tied  and  embarrassed. 

"May  I  see  it  all  down  some  day  if  I  am  very  kind? 
And  then  I  will  make  a  picture  of  you,  my  unhappy,  grave 
Madonnina." 

"No,  no,  Signore!  The  girl  shrank  from  him  but  he 
held  iher  by  her  hands. 

"If  you  look  so  afraid  and  shrink  from  me,  Zita  mia,  I 
will  punish  you  as  you  deserve."  He  held  her  closer  to  him 
and  looked  down  into  her  distressed  face.  The  girl  had 
never  looked  more  beautiful. 

"You  see,  I  could  kiss  you  as  often  as  I  chose,  puppidda 
mia,  but  I  won't — not  until  you  allow  me  to,  not  until  you 
want  me  to."  He  covered  one  of  the  girl's  breasts  with  his 
right  hand.  It  was  perfectly  moulded  and  virginally  firm. 
It  was  not  the  first  time  that  his  hands  had  tarnished  inno- 
cence and  given  birth  to  desires. 

"I  will  not  offer  you  an  undesired  kiss,  Madonnina,"  he 
said.  "I  will  give  you  this  instead."  He  drew  from  his 
pocket  a  coral  necklace ;  each  bead  was  delicately  cut  so  as 
to  represent  a  ripe  raspberry.  He  tried  to  fasten  it  round 
her  neck,  but  Zita's  quick  hands  prevented  him. 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  21 

"Prego,  Signore,  I  cannot  wear  them."  Her  bent  head 
prevented  him  slipping  the  beads  under  her  chin.  "Senta, 
Signore,"  she  said  more  brightly,  "I  wear  a  string  of 
coral.  I  do  not  require  your  gift,  ma  grazie."  She 
pulled  out  her  beads,  which  were  hidden  by  her  dress. 

"But  that  is  only  peasant's  coral.  This  is  pigeon- 
blood,  the  very  tone  of  your  ripe  lips." 

"No,  no,  Signore!     I  do  not  accept  presents." 

"Ma,  this  is  no  present.  I  thought  they  would  suit  your 
white  throat  and  crimson  lips ;  wear  them,  Madonnina, 
just  to  give  me  pleasure.  You  know  I  love  looking  at 
pretty  things  and  I  have  no  sister  to  give  them  to." 

The  girl  looked  at  them.  She  appreciated  their  beauty, 
for  coral  has  always  been  much  prized  and  understood  in 
Sicily.  Such  blood-red  coral  is  rare  and  beautiful;  it  is 
imported  from  far  seas.  Besides,  the  workmanship  of  the 
beads  made  it  unique. 

"It  is  very  costly,  Signore,  and  worthy  of  our  museum." 

"I  paid  nothing  for  it.  I  could  have  convicted  a  youth 
of  theft;  he  was  in  my  power.  His  mother  brought  me 
this,  her  last  family  relic,  to  buy  him  off." 

"Povera  DonnaJ"  Zita's  eyes  looked  tenderly  at  the 
beautiful  beads.  She  was  not  accusing  the  Signore,  merely 
visualising  the  mother's  agony. 

"Don't  they  look  as  if  juice  would  burst  from  them  if 
you  pricked  them?"  he  said. 

Zita's  thoughts  were  still  with  the  boy's  mother. 
"Povera  donna,"  she  said  again,  "povera  donna." 

"Perbacco,  carina,  but  they  will  be  happier  round  your 
white  throat.  Pretty  things  do  not  like  to  be  hidden  away 
in  a  poor  woman's  house,  and  they  hate  to  be  worn  by 
ugly  people.  Things  have  feelings,  Zitina,  like  ourselves." 

"  Si,  si,  Signore." 

The  girl  did  not  follow  his  meaning,  but  politeness  to 
her  superiors  made  her  agree  with  him.  Politeness  in  a 
Sicilian  is  almost  as  great  a  force  as  it  is  in  a  Japanese. 
Politeness  made  it  impossible  for  Zita  to  openly  resent  the 


22  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

Signore's  terms  of  endearment  or  his  everyday  attentions 
to  her.  In  Sicily,  an  employer  will  often  speak  affection- 
ately to  his  employees  and  to  their  children.  At  one 
moment  the  Signore  made  the  girl  feel  that  she  was  only, 
in  his  eyes,  her  brother's  young  sister,  a  mere  child  in 
years;  at  another,  she  was  the  woman  he  desired  and  was 
hunting. 

Because  Zita  did  not  disagree  with  the  Signore,  he  said 
coaxingly,  "Then  wear  them.  Take  off  these  beads  and 
put  on  mine.  Look,  yours  are  quite  brown  beside  my 
pigeon's  blood."  He  had  unfastened  the  beads  from  the 
girl's  neck ;  he  held  up  both  strings  in  his  hands.  The  ones 
she  had  refused  made  her  own  look  ugly  and  ill-coloured, 
but  with  jealous  fingers  she  took  them  quickly  from  his 
hand. 

"Prego,  Signore,  my  dead  mother  gave  them  to  me — she 
saved  up  so  long  for  them." 

Tears  sprang  to  her  eyes.  What  would  her  mother 
think  of  her  child  if  she  could  see  her  seated  beside  a  Sig- 
nore, whose  eyes  made  her  dawning  womanhood  ashamed? 
Would  her  mother  petition  the  Blessed  Virgin  to  help  her 
helpless  child?  Her  wet  eyes  were  tragic.  The  Signore 
wiped  them  with  his  linen  handkerchief  and  put  the  re- 
jected corals  back  into  his  pocket.  After  lunch  the  girl 
would  probably  have  accepted  them!  he  had  offered  them 
too  soon. 

When  her  eyes  were  dried  and  she  was  smilling  again — 
for  the  Signore  had  treated  her  like  a  fractious  baby,  while 
he  wiped  away  her  tears — he  bent  his  head  and  put  his  lips 
close  to  hers. 

"Now  won't  you  give  me  a  kiss  and  say  I  am  forgiven  ? 
I  never  meant  to  hurt  your  feelings.  Well,  if  you 
are  shy,  let  me  kiss  your  eyes,  let  me  teach  you  how  to 
kiss." 

Zita  was  a  true  child  of  the  south,  eager  for  love  and 
affection.  Her  senses  were  battling  against  her  fear  of  his 
demands.  But  to  allow  any  man  to  kiss  her  or  to  ever 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  23 

speak  of  love  to  her  before  marriage  was  a  thing  unthink- 
able, a  disgrace. 

She  sprang  from  him  like  a  young  animal  freed  from  a 
trap.  Had  her  swift  prayer  been  answered?  New  energy 
had  come  to  her. 

"No,  Signore,  mai,  mai!"     She  struggled  to  her  feet. 

As  long  as  his  hands  caressed  her  her  energy  deserted 
her,  resistance  was  benumbed;  beyond  his  reach  and  the 
physical  influence  of  his  passion  she  could  act  and  think. 
With  flaming  eyes  she  faced  him  bravely. 

"Tell  me,  Signore,  where  is  my  brother?  Where  is 
Salvatore?  Why  is  he  not  here  to  protect  me?" 

The  Signore  shook  his  head ;  her  anger  amused  him.  "I 
do  not  know  where  he  is."  As  he  spoke,  he  sprang  from 
the  couch  and  blocked  the  door;  if  she  attempted  to  pass 
him  he  would  take  her  in  his  arms.  Panting,  she  faced 
him  again. 

"Why  did  you  bring  me  here,  Signore?  Was  it  to  meet 
Salvatore,  or  was  it  for  your  pleasure?" 

"For  my  pleasure  and  for  your  pleasure  too,  angry 
lifctle  Zita!  When  I  have  taught  you  how  sweet  love  can 
be,  you  will  smile  again  and  forget  those  fears.  This  is 
to  be  our  love-birds'  nest,  puppidda  mia." 

The  girl's  face  became  chalk-white ;  she  gave  a  low  cry. 
"Madonna  mia,  why  did  I  come  here?  Why  did  I  come 
here?" 

The  room  began  to  move  up  and  down.  She  felt  faint; 
in  another  moment  she  would  indeed  be  at  his  mercy.  She 
had  to  support  herself  by  holding  on  to  the  table. 

The  Signore  poured  out  a  glass  of  Marsala  and  told 
her  to  drink  it.  Zita  had  only  drunk  the  cheap  red  wine 
bought  at  the  country  farms,  and  always  mixed  with 
water;  no  Sicilian  ever  drinks  plain  wine.  She  drank 
some  Marsala  eagerly;  she  would  have  drunk  anything 
to  steady  her  tottering  limbs  and  give  her  power  to  act 
and  to  think.  The  wine  did  restore  her;  the  faintness 
passed. 


"I  want  Salvatore."  She  said  the  words  as  a  child 
might  have  said  them.  "Take  me  to  Salvatore." 

"This  is  all  nonsense,"  he  said  gently.  "All  women  feel 
like  this  until  love  has  shown  them  that  there  is  nothing 
to  fear.  Dear  little  girl,  I  will  be  so  good  to  you — won't 
you  let  me  be  your  big  and  devoted  lover?"  - 

"Non  mail"  she  cried  wildly.  "You  are  cruel,  Signore, 
you  know  a  good  girl  cannot  have  a  lover ;  you  know  that  I 
am  virtuous."  Tears  poured  down  Zita's  cheeks. 

The  Signore's  fingers  wiped  them  away.  "You  dear 
little  woman,  you  want  me  and  my  love;  you  are  only 
afraid,  afraid  of  other  people,  child;  you  are  not  afraid 
of  me." 

The  wine  was  by  this  time  surging  through  the  girl's 
veins;  it  had  stopped  her  faintness,  but  it  was  making 
her  feel  very  weak,  almost  as  helpless  as  when  she  was 
faint.  If  he  took  her  in  his  arms  now,  what  could  she 
do  ?  Oh,  Mother  in  Heaven !  If  only  it  was  not 
wrong  to  lay  her  heavy  head  on  his  shoulder  and  go  to 
sleep ! 

The  Signore  stood  silently  beside  her.  He  knew  what 
was  happening;  he  saw  the  stern  expression  on  the  young 
face  relaxing ;  he  saw  that  resistance  was  almost  over,  the 
battle  almost  won. 

Tenderly  he  kissed  her  wet  cheek.  As  a  lover  he  was 
perfect.  The  girl  was  refined  and  sensitive;  with  her 
passion  must  be  devoid  of  grossness.  Zita  looked  up  at 
him  with  heavy  eyes.  He  was  quite  right — for  the  moment 
resistance  was  impossible.  But  it  was  only  for  a  moment. 
With  one  of  those  sudden  clearings  of  the  brain  and  whole 
system,  which  is  totally  inexplicable,  every  trace  of  wine- 
languor  suddenly  left  Zita.  Her  head  lost  its  heaviness 
and  her  energies  became  vitalised.  With  extraordinary 
clarity  her  wits  began  to  work.  Her  prayer  .had  been 
answered;  she  had  been  shown  the  way. 

The  Signore  was  kissing  her;  she  must  let  him  kiss  her 
again — yes,  kiss  her  and  caress  her. 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  25 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  inviting  eyes.  "Salvatore 
will  come,"  she  said,  "and  if  he  comes,  he  will  kill  us." 

"No,  no,  gioia  mia,  we  are  safe.  There  is  only  you  and 
I,  our  two  selves  in  the  whole  world.  This  little  room  will 
only  hold  Love,  our  Love,  all  this  afternoon,  donna  mia." 
He  kissed  her  soft  throat  as  he  murmured  the  words  in  her 
ear. 

"No,  no,"  she  said  pleadingly,  "I  am  afraid.  See  that 
Salvatore  is  not  near."  Her  eyes  showed  no  shrinking, 
only  alarm  for  their  safety.  "He  will  certainly  kill  us, 
Signore." 

"I  will  go  and  make  everything  secure,  mio  dolce  amore, 
I  will  tell  the  padrone  that  I  am  engaged."  He  laughed 
happily,  as  he  held  her  closely  to  him.  "My  timid  little 
robin,  soon  you  will  laugh  at  all  your  fears.  Now  I  will 
go,  if  you  will  promise  to  be  quite  at  rest  with  me  and  enjoy 
all  the  beautiful  gifts  of  love.  Little  woman,  you  don't 
know  what  wonderful  things  love  can  do." 

Zita  smiled.  Her  brain  was  working  furiously,  but  he 
must  not  know;  he  must  go  and  look  for  Salvatore;  she 
must  play  her  part. 

She  watched  his  movements.  It  was  obvious  that  he  did 
not  trust  her  for  he  took  the  key  out  of  the  inside  of  the 
door  and  locked  it  behind  him  from  the  outside.  She  heard 
him  run  down  the  stairs ;  in  a  very  few  minutes  he  would 
return  to  claim  his  promise. 

She  flew  to  the  window.  She  must  jump  out  even  if  she 
broke  all  her  limbs  in  doing  so.  She  opened  it  quietly.  If 
he  was  on  the  doorstep  he  would  look  up  and  see  her,  but 
she  would  jump  all  the  same.  When  the  window  was 
opened  to  its  fullest,  she  put  out  her  head  and  shoulders. 

A  long  cart  piled  high  with  donax  reeds  was  drawing 
close  to  the  inn.  She  must  wait  until  it  passed  her  window, 
for  the  reeds  would  reach  almost  to  the  balcony.  Her 
fears  left  no  time  for  doubts.  Now  was  her  chance,  the 
Blessed  Virgin  had  sent  this  means  of  escape.  She  scram- 
bled out  on  to  the  small  balcony  and  waited  until  the  cart 


26  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

came  under  it,  then  with  the  lightness  of  youth  she  poised 
herself  for  one  moment  on  its  railings  and  leaped  on  to  the 
load  of  donax  reeds. 

The  man  who  was  driving  the  cart  was  suddenly  aroused 
from  his  reverie,  which  he  was  accompanying  with  the 
music  of  a  long  reed  flute.  What  he  saw  was  a  girl,  hat- 
less  and  excited,  suddenly  drop  like  a  bolt  from  the  blue 
on  to  his  load  of  reeds. 

"Prego,  Signore,  save  me!  Hide  me  under  your  rain- 
sheet,  cover  me  quickly." 

The  youth  took  the  rain-sheet,  which  he  used  for  his 
horse  in  the  evenings  in  bad  weather,  and  without  speak- 
ing a  word  or  waiting  for  a  minute,  he  threw  it  over  the 
girl,  who  lay  panting  and  speechless.  When  youth  is  in 
distress,  a  Sicilian  does  not  stop  to  enquire  what  is  right 
and  what  is  wrong;  when  it  pleads  for  help  it  receives  it. 
The  young  man  had  not  seen  how  beautiful  his  burden  was, 
but  it  was  young.  Without  more  ado,  they  journeyed  on, 
up  the  narrow  street  and  out  of  the  town  and  all  the  while 
Zita  lay  trembling  and  thankful,  while  the  carter  played 
gaily  on  his  pipe.  Intrigue  is  instinctive  to  all  Sicilians ; 
while  he  played,  he  wondered  what  part  he  had  filled  in  a 
strange  romance. 

When  they  were  beyond  the  outskirts  of  the  town  and 
no-one  seemed  to  trouble  them,  he  stopped  his  playing  and 
with  the  familiar  Italian  expression,  "Mi  scusi,"  he  lifted 
the  storm-sheet  and  peeped  at  the  hidden  girl. 

"Signorina,"  he  said,  "where  do  you  wish  to  go  to? 
We  have  now  left  the  town." 

"To  Girgenti,  prego,  Signor,  e  grazie,  mille  grazie." 

The  youth  laughed.  "Mi  displace,  but  I  am  not  going 
to  Girgenti." 

"How  near  do  you  go,  Signor?" 

"I  can  take  you  a  good  part  of  the  way." 

Zita's  dark  head  was  now  uncovered.  He  saw  her  face 
for  the  first  time.  A  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth  seemed 
suddenly  opened  to  him.  He  was  gazing  into  young  eyes 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  27 

which  held  both  fear  and  gratitude;  he  was  listening  to 
words  spoken  by  lips  whose  perfection  he  had  never  im- 
agined. 

"Grazie,  grazie,  Signor,"  she  said  again.  "I  was  in 
great  danger  .  .  .  you  saved  me  .  .  ."  she  hesitated 
"...  Yes,  I  was  in  terrible  danger.  If  you  had  not 
been  passing,  I  should  have  jumped  to  the  ground." 

"What  good  fortune  was  mine,  Signorina !  Where  are 
you  going  to  now?"  The  young  man's  eyes  were  devoutly 
respectful. 

"To  the  Casa  Salvatore,  my  brother's  house  in  Girgenti, 
my  home." 

He  had  mentioned  the  point  in  the  road  where  their  ways 
must  part.  "Can  you  walk  so  far  alone?" 

"Gia,  gia."  She  spoke  eagerly,  although  in  truth  both 
the  wine  she  had  drunk  and  the  strain  she  had  endured  made 
her  feel  unusually  tired.  Her  limbs  and  head  felt  heavy, 
but  if  she  might  rest  on  the  cart  until  their  ways  parted, 
she  could  then  manage  the  walk. 

All  she  realised  at  present  was  the  fact  that 
she  was  not  returning  home  a  shamed  and  disgraced 
woman.  She  had  tricked  and  outwitted  the  Signore. 
Shame  she  certainly  felt  for  her  lack  of  frankness  with 
Salvatore.  For  weeks  and  weeks  past  she  had  known  that 
the  Signore  was  making  love  to  her  in  a  thousand  clever 
and  subtle  ways.  In  Sicily  it  is  the  unspoken  language 
which  feeds  the  heart  and  in  which  vows  are  exchanged. 
The  Signore  had  spoken  these  things  of  the  heart  to  her 
when  he  was  busy  with  her  brother,  he  had  told  them 
while  she  sat  all  alone  under  the  dark  carob  tree,  indus- 
triously knitting.  Did  not  all  this  mean  that  she  ought 
to  have  told  Salvatore? 

Now  she  knew,  as  she  lay  on  the  donax  reeds,  that  she 
had  been  punished,  that  this  would  never  have  happened 
if  she  had  told  Salvatore  what  she  knew  to  be  the  truth, 
that  the  Signore  had  been  hunting  her  and  desiring  her, 
ever  since  he  had  set  eyes  on  her,  that  he  had  probably 


28  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

thought  that  her  assumption  of  virtue  was  merely  a  part 
of  a  woman's  wiles.  If  she  had  been  a  really  modest  girl, 
she  would  have  told  her  brother.  The  Signore  had  trusted 
to  that.  He  had  meant  to  trap  her  and  capture  her. 
The  three  glasses  set  out  on  the  inn  table  had  been  a  blind. 
He  had  never  expected  Salvatore;  he  had  sent  him  off  on 
a  long  journey  to  keep  him  out  of  the  way.  The  Signore 
had  taken  it  for  granted  that  she  really  cared  for  him 
and  that  she  would  willingly  give  herself  to  him  if  Sal- 
vatore never  knew. 

The  shame  of  the  whole  thing  made  her  angrier  with 
herself  than  she  was  with  the  Signore.  He  was  just  like 
all  other  men ;  if  he  believed  a  girl  was  good,  he  would 
behave  respectfully  to  her ;  if  he  thought  she  was  light 
and  without  virtue  he  would  take  from  her  what  pleasure 
he  could.  Yes,  he  had  thought  she  would  accept  his  love 
and  hide  the  fact  from  her  brother,  and  even  now,  how 
dared  she  tell  Salvatore?  For  he  would  certainly  seek  his 
revenge.  Brothers  have  killed  men  for  smaller  insults 
offered  to  their  sisters.  Besides,  even  if  her  brother  only 
quarrelled  with  him  they  would  be  homeless. 

There  was  only  one  thing  to  do — keep  the  shame  and 
horror  of  the  thing  to  herself  and  never  let  the  Signore 
speak  to  her  again,  except  in  Salvatore's  presence. 

Her  brain  was  clearing  and  her  nerves  were  less  dis- 
turbed. She  could  look  back  on  the  scene  with  calmer 
reasoning.  She  had  saved  herself  by  the  miraculous  inter- 
vention of  Providence,  the  Blessed  Virgin  had  helped  her, 
the  cart  had  been  sent  at  the  right  moment.  She  would  again 
help  her  to  reach  her  home  before  Salvatore  returned. 

To  cleanse  her  memory  of  all  that  defiled  it  she  said  her 
prayers.  They  restored  her  self-respect  and  calmed  her 
eyes ;  she  could  look  at  clear  hills  without  shame. 

Feeling  more  courageous,  she  pushed  back  the  heavy 
rain-sheet  and  sat  upright.  The  driver  had  seated  himself 
on  the  shaft  of  the  waggon.  She  could  look  down  at  him 
unuerceived.  He  was  young  and  good-looking  and  well- 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  29 

dressed.  It  was  nice  of  him  to  sit  on  the  shaft  while  she 
rested  above;  the  act  showed  a  consideration  for  her  dis- 
tress. As  she  crept  to  the  edge  of  the  donax  reeds  so  as  to 
see  him  better,  he  looked  up.  Their  eyes  met,  their  lips 
smiled.  They  were  delightfully  young. 

"Have  you  rested?"  he  asked  respectfully. 

"Si,  si,  Signor,  and  I  owe  you  a  thousand  thanks.  You 
saved  me ;  I  was  in  great  trouble." 

"So  I  imagined."  He  spoke  gravely,  but  a  smile  lit  up 
his  expressive  Sicilian  eyes. 

"I  was  locked  into  a  room,  and  I  could  not  get  out  and 
I  had  to  be  back  in  Girgenti  by  dark,  before  my  brother 
gets  home.  I  have  the  key  of  the  house." 

"Were  you  naughty?"  he  asked.  "Were  you  locked  up 
as  a  punishment?" 

"No,  no,  Signor.  I  had  only  been  unwise."  Her  eyes 
were  grave. 

He  had  used  the  word  "cattiva,"  which  has  a  wider 
meaning  than  naughty  or  wicked.  His  use  of  the  word 
implied,  had  she  been  childishly  naughty? 

"I  only  blame  myself  for  my  want  of  experience."  Zita 
spoke  with  the  habitual  dignity  of  her  race. 

"Sacramento!  Then  you  were  in  real  distress?"  He 
got  up  from  his  low  seat  and  climbed  to  the  top  of  the 
donax  reeds.  "Tell  me,"  he  said  sympathetically,  "what 
would  you  have  done  if  my  cart  had  not  passed?" 

"I  should  have  jumped  from  the  window  into  the  street.'* 
Her  eyes  dropped  under  his  gaze ;  she  looked  ashamed. 

"Poverina,"  he  said,  "I  understand." 

"My  brother  must  never  know;  he  would  .  .  ."  she 
paused.  "Oh,  he  must  never  know !  You  saved  me, 
Signor,  so  he  need  never  know — I  shall  reach  home  in 
time." 

"Grazie  a  Dio,  I  was  passing!"  he  said.  "But  I'd  kill 
him  and  save  your  brother." 

"No,  no,"  she  said  impulsively.  "Perhaps  it  was  my 
fault.  I  believed  he  was  taking  me  to  my  brother ;  he  said 


30  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

Salvatore  expected  us  in  the  port.  I  ought  to  have  been 
wiser,  I  ought  to  have  known." 

"You  were  brave,  Signorina." 

"I  was  desperate,  Signor." 

"Tell  me  his  name,"  he  said,  "and  I  will  kill  him." 

The  girl's  simplicity  and  purity  appealed  to  his  romantic 
nature  and  fired  his  southern  blood.  He  was  already  long- 
ing to  fight  a  duel  for  her  sake.  Her  half-told  story  was 
complete  in  his  vision. 

Zita  threw  back  her  head.  "Non  mai,  Signor.  Let  me 
forget,  do  not  ask  to  know  his  name.  All  I  desire  is  to 
forget." 

"Per  certo,  Signorina,  you  must  forget.  Let  others 
remember,  let  others  teach  him  the  lesson  he  deserves." 

Even  in  Sicily  a  girl  does  not  drop  down  on  your  cart 
like  a  bolt  from  the  blue  every  day  to  petition  }rour  help. 
And  such  a  girl!  The  first  fine  flame  of  rapture  leaped 
through  his  veins. 

The  girl  was  deliciously  serious,  and  if  the  youth  did 
not  understand  her  classic  type  as  the  Signore  did,  he  know 
that  she  was  beautiful.  He  longed  to  meet  the  man  who 
had  placed  her  in  her  present  predicament ;  his  senses  told 
him  that  her  virtue  was  no  pose.  He  also  knew  his  own  race 
and  the  temperament  of  its  people ;  the  girl  at  his  side  was 
not  a  safety-match;  and  now  that  she  was  in  his  care  it 
behooved  him  to  keep  his  own  senses  cool  and  his  speech 
within  reason.  To  play  his  flute  would  be  safer  than  talk- 
ing to  a  girl  with  melting  eyes  and  a  laughing  mouth. 

"Do  you  like  the  music  of  the  pipe,  Signorina?"  he  asked 
modestly.  "It  is  very  simple  but  it  may  pass  the  time." 

"Gia,  gia,  I  like  it  very  much.  You  were  playing  some- 
thing from  'Cavalleria  Rusticana' — I  heard  it." 

He  took  up  his  pipe.  "I  will  play  an  older  Sicilian  air 
this  time." 

Her  eyes  smiled ;  she  was  familiar  with  it.  She  sang  it 
softly  to  the  flute  accompaniment.  It  was  one  of  the 
peasant-songs  which  the  women  sing  while  they  beat  the 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  31 

wheat  on  the  threshing  floors.  Zita's  young  voice  was  true 
and  clear.  The  pipe  ceased  for  a  moment. 

"You  sing,  Signorina?" 

"No,  Signer,  I  wish  I  could." 

"Then  what  do  you  call  the  noise  you  were  making?  I 
call  it  singing." 

Zita  laughed  and  when  she  laughed  her  love  of  laughter 
delighted  the  youth.  Was  ever  a  girl  so  winsome?  Was 
ever  beauty  so  merry  and  yet  so  grave  ?  He  played  again ; 
this  time  it  was  the  "Caro  nome"  from  "Rigoletto." 

"Prego,  Signorina,"  he  said  respectfully,  "make  that 
noise  again,  and  a  little  louder  this  time,  if  you  please." 

His  lips  were  lifted  from  his  pipe.    Zita  shook  her  head. 

"Prego,  Signorina,"  he  said,  "make  it  again."  He  did 
not  go  on  playing  until  she  hummed  the  air. 

All  Sicilians  who  have  any  voice  at  all  have  an  instinctive 
knowledge  of  how  to  produce  it;  a  carter  of  manure  uses 
his  voice  like  an  operatic  singer.  Zita  forgot  her  shyness 
and  sang  the  song  as  she  felt  it  ought  to  be  sung. 

"Grazie,"  the  youth  said,  when  he  had  finished  playing 
her  accompaniment.  "If  you  can't  sing,  there  will  be  no 
birds  in  paradise." 

Zita  took  his  remark  for  what  it  was  worth.  In  Sicily  it 
is  seldom  spoken  compliments  which  make  a  girl's  heart 
beat  quicker. 

She  had  lost  herself  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  music.  The 
fresh  air,  her  high  seat  on  the  reeds  and  the  good  com- 
panionship of  her  unknown  friend  had  driven  away  all 
unhappincss  from  her  mind. 

When  they  came  to  the  parting  of  their  ways,  she  felt  as 
if  she  were  saying  good-b}^  to  a  friend  instead  of  to  a 
youth  whom  she  had  never  seen  before.  As  a  reward  for 
his  timely  services  and  good  conduct,  he  was  permitted  to 
put  his  arm  tightly  round  her  slim  waist  and  swing  her 
down  from  the  high  pile  of  reeds  to  the  long  shaft  of  the 
cart. 

When  her  feet  were  firmly  planted  on  the  ground  she 


32  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

thanked  him  again  and  again.  Her  blushes  delighted  him 
more  than  her  gracious  words. 

A  Sicilian  can  fall  in  love  with  the  twinkling  of  an  eye. 
Sardo  Fontana  had  already  given  his  heart  to  Zita  for 
ever.  The  thing  was  complete  and  overmastering  from  the 
first  moment.  Zita  was  now  his  "adorata,"  and  let  no 
northern  mind  imagine  that  such  a  love  is  a  thing  to  be 
laughed  at  or  to  be  thought  of  as  chaff  before  the  wind. 
As  light  comes  into  a  room,  so  love  comes  into  a  Sicilian's 
heart. 

Sardo,  like  a  young  Apollo,  had  played  many  songs  on 
his  pipe  to  imaginary  girls  and  worshipped  a  hundred 
ideals  of  the  girl-wife  who  would  one  day  be  the  mother  of 
his  sons — for  that  is  the  great  ideal,  the  woman  who  is  to 
be  the  mother  of  his  sons,  the  woman  who  is  to  give  him 
children.  A  childless  home  is  no  home  to  an  Italian  or 
Sicilian.  Zita  was  now  to  be  that  woman ;  she  was  his  ideal 
in  human  form.  In  his  mind  she  would  be  his  "adorata," 
his  joy,  his  guardian  angel,  his  sweet  treasure — but  it  is  a 
travesty  to  translate  all  the  beautiful  expressions  which 
Sardo  would  apply  to  Zita.  In  crude  English  his  devout 
passion  becomes  ludicrous. 

They  parted  regretfully,  Zita  because  she  had  now  to 
walk  all  alone  and  it  was  many  miles,  and  Sardo  because  the 
gladness  of  the  day  was  in  the  girl's  eyes  and  they  were 
leaving  him.  When  would  he  see  her  again?  He  did  not 
allow  himself  to  think  that  he  would  never  see  her  again, 
for  in  Sicily  where  there  is  true  love,  there  is  a  way.  He 
dared  not  because  he  knew  of  her  awful  adventure  suggest 
a  meeting;  if  he  did  she  might  imagine  that  he  thought 
lightly  of  her.  The  utmost  he  could  do  was  to  ask  her,  in 
a  very  deferential  voice,  to  which  church  she  went  on 
Sundays. 

Having  learnt  that  fact  there  was  nothing  to  prevent 
him  going  to  the  same  church. 

He  watched  the  girl  walk  swiftly  away,  then  kissing  the 
neck  of  his  mare  because  of  its  sex.,  he  jumped  up  on  to  the 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  33 

shaft  of  his  cart  and  cried,  "Amonene  amonene"  (Lei  us 
go  together). 


CHAPTER  III 

FATE  or  the  Virgin  was  kind  to  Zita,  for  she  arrived  home 
quite  an  hour  before  Salvatore  returned  from  his  work. 
Her  long  walk  had  seemed  unending,  for  very  soon  her 
pleasant  ride  on  the  donax  reeds  had  been  driven  from  her 
thoughts  by  her  increasing  anxiety  to  reach  home  before 
her  brother's  return.  Every  incident  of  the  day  had  danced 
before  her  eyes ;  each  persuasive  tone  of  the  Signore's  voice 
had  rung  in  her  ears.  A  hundred  times  the  ominous  sound 
of  the  door  key  turning  in  the  lock  had  broken  the  country 
stillness.  The  shame  of  it  all  and  the  vulgarity  of  the 
episode  had  increased,  until  her  nerves  were  at  breaking 
point  when  she  reached  her  front  door. 

To  her  tired  feet  the  road  she  had  travelled  over  in  so 
short  a  time  in  the  car  had  seemed  eternal.  But,  thanks  be 
to  God !  Salvatore  had  not  returned ;  the  cottage  was 
undisturbed. 

It  seemed  strange  that  things  should  be  so  normal.  She 
set  about  preparing  the  evening  meal.  When  it  was  ready 
Salvatore  appeared.  He  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  ask 
Zita  if  she  had  been  out;  he  knew  that  unless  it  was  with 
him,  she  never  left  their  home. 

When  the  dish  of  gnocchi  was  on  the  table  and  they  were 
both  seated,  Salvatore  said  nervously,  "Zita !  I  have  some- 
thing to  tell  you,  but  let  us  finish  our  supper  first." 

Zita's  heart  seemed  to  stop  beating.  Her  brother's  face 
was  grave — had  he  heard?  Yes,  surely  he  knew. 

"Fratello  mio,  is  it  very  awful?"  Her  words  were 
spoken  with  a  brave  effort  of  self-control. 

"It  depends  upon  what  you  consider  awful." 


34  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

"By  your  voice,  Salvatore,  I  might  think  one  of  us  had 
committed  a  crime." 

Salvatore  looked  up  quickly.  The  girl's  words  hit  him. 
There  was  silence  while  they  ate  their  gnocchi  with  an 
industry  and  quickness  which  would  have  amused  a 
foreigner.  They  belonged  to  the  least  greedy  nation  in 
Europe ;  but  what  few  good  meals  Sicilians  have  per  week, 
they  eat  eagerly  and  with  the  appearance  of  greed. 
Gnocchi  is  made  of  maize,  appetisingly  cooked  with  a  little 
cheese  and  butter.  When  the  fact  is  borne  in  mind  that  a 
full  day's  work  was  well  paid  if  the  labourer  received  one 
franc  forty  per  day,  it  goes  without  saying  that  a  good 
dinner  consisted  of  one  dish. 

Salvatore  drank  some  wine,  probably  less  than  a 
farthing's  worth.  Zita  did  not  take  any — the  heady 
Marsala  had  been  more  than  enough  for  one  day!  When 
her  brother  had  emptied  his  glass,  Zita  said : 

"Now  tell  me,  fratello  mio,  your  secret." 

"Per  certo,  it  is  a  secret,  Zita,  and  you  must  keep  it." 

"Do  I  ever  go  to  the  well,  Salvatore?"  (The  well  is  the 
meeting-place  of  the  gossips.) 

"No,  no !"    He  held  out  his  hand,  by  way  of  apology. 

"Tell  me,  then,  what  makes  you  so  grave." 

"You  must  know,  baby,  and  yet  I  would  like  to  spare 
you." 

"You  are  not  going  to  leave  me,  Salvatore?"  Her 
words  were  a  cry. 

"No,  baby,  where  I  go  you  go.  When  I  leave  Girgenti 
you  will  go  with  me." 

"Ma,  Salvatore,  how  can  we  leave  Girgenti?" 

"I  did  not  say  we  were  going  to  leave  our  home  to-night. 
If  I  make  some  money,  baby,  would  you  like  to  see  the 
Continent?" 

"Make  money?"  Her  eyes  expressed  wonder.  What 
did  his  words  mean?  Miracles  do  not  happen  to  everyday 
people, 

"Yes,  make  money.    I  have  been  working  hard  for  four 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  35 

years.  All  I  can  make  of  digging  will  never  take  us  out 
of  this  little  town;  it  will  never  pay  for  my  fees  at  the 
University;  it  scarcely  feeds  us." 

It  was  the  old  dream,  the  old  desire !  Zita  thought  that 
lately  he  had  resigned  himself  to  his  provincial  occupation. 

"I  have  found  a  way  with  the  Signore's  help  to  make 
some  money." 

"Tell  me  what  way  you  have  found  to  make  money?" 
His  words  struck  her.  The  Signore! 

"Senta !  One  month  ago  I  found  two  Greek  urns ;  they 
belong  to  the  best  period  of  Greek  Art." 

"Si,  si !"  Zita  grew  impatient.  What  had  Greek  vases 
to  do  with  his  story?" 

"They  are  worth  a  large  sum  of  money." 

"How  much,  Salvatore?" 

"Some  thousands  of  lire,  if  properly  sold,  I  suppose." 

Zita's  eyes  grew  darker,  her  lips  parted  in  wonder. 

"The  urns  are  mine,"  Salvatore  said.  "I  found  them." 
His  words  were  harsh. 

"Yes,  Salvatore,  you  have  found  many  things,  but " 

"But  nothing  is  mine,  you  are  going  to  say,  until  it  is 
given  to  me  by  the  museum  authorities.  Well,  I  am  going 
to  keep  these  two  Greek  urns ;  the  Signore  is  going  to  sell 
them  for  me  to  some  wealthy  American  on  the  Continent." 

Zita's  eyes  expressed  an  unspoken  horror;  she  shrank  in 
her  clothes ;  her  body  felt  small  inside  them.  Some  dread- 
ful change  had  come  to  Salvatore. 

"If  I  hadn't  found  them,  no  museum  would  be  any  the 
poorer;  for  two  thousand  years  they  have  lain  just  where  I 
found  them.  If  some  wealthy  American  buys  them,  their 
beauty  will  be  widely  appreciated  and  they  will  benefit  the 
world  more  than  if  they  were  shut  up  in  a  museum." 

"Si,  si,  but  that  does  not  make  your  action  the  less  dis- 
honest. You  must  n,ot  do  it,  you  cannot  do  it!  You  are 
an  honest  man !  We  are  not  starving,  f ratello  mio !" 

"I  want  money,  the  urns  are  mine!  Doesn't  the  land 
belong  to  me  and  to  you  just  as  much  as  to  the  Govern- 


36  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

ment?  We  are  the  Government;  we  are  taxed  for  every 
mortal  thing  we  eat  and  possess.  The  Government  of  the 
country  is  the  taxpayers.  I  have  as  much  right  to  what  I 
find  in  the  land  as  the  King  himself.  He  would  agree  to 
that ;  he  is  a  reasonable  man." 

"Santa  Madre!"  Zita  cried.  "Have  you  lost  your 
senses?  Is  it  too  much  book-learning?" 

"Perhaps  I  have  just  come  into  them.  I  dig  and  dig 
and  dig,  and  what  am  I  paid?  One  lira  and  a  half  per  day. 
These  urns,  if  taken  to  the  authorities,  would  only  enrich 
the  museums,  which  as  you  know  are  only  visited  by 
forestieri.  Now  I  have  got  this  chance  I  mean  to  take  it. 
Such  a  discovery  was  never  dreamed  of.  They  must  have 
been  hidden  for  safety ;  they  are  fine  examples  of  the  urns 
which  were  bestowed  upon  the  Olympic  champions." 

"How  are  you  going  to  sell  them  ?  Where  are  you  going 
to  keep  them?"  Zita  was  trembling.  The  very  idea  that 
her  brother  could  contemplate  dishonesty  had  shaken  her 
belief  in  human  nature ;  it  had  thrown  her  mind  into  a  state 
of  chaos. 

"That  is  what  I  want  to  tell  you,"  he  said.  "They  are 
very  tall  and  big,"  he  indicated  their  height  from  the  level 
of  the  floor.  "They  are  in  perfect  condition ;  they  are  pan- 
athenaic  vases,  trophies  which  were  made  for  ornament,  not 
for  domestic  use.  There  is  nothing  like  them  in  any  of  our 
museums." 

Zita  was  listening.  Salvatore  saw  her  anxiety,  but 
ignored  it. 

"I  am  going  to  bring  them  here  after  sundown  in  two 
pig-skins  from  the  well.  No-one  will  look  twice  at  them ; 
they  will  be  on  a  donkey's  back 'like  any  other  water-jars." 
He  paused  and  then  said,  "There  will  be  no  risk." 

"And  when  you  get  them  here,  Salvatore?" 

"I  am  going  to  dig  a  hole  in  the  floor  in  front  of  the 
stove." 

"You  are  going  to  bring  them  to  our  house !  Hide  your 
stolen  urns  under  the  very  hearth  by  which  our  mother  sat 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  37 

when  she  nursed  us  at  her  knees !"  Zita's  words  rang  out 
in  protest.  Her  sobs  almost  choked  her  words.  "Oh, 
Salvatore  mio,  Salvatore  mio,  say  you  do  not  mean  it!" 
She  raised  her  tear-stormed  eyes  to  his;  she  was  at  his 
knees.  "You  are  only  frightening  me!  Our  mother's 
house  must  not  become  a  den  of  thieves.  Tell  me  quickly, 
Salvatore — say  that  it  is  not  true,  say  that  it  is  only  a 
joke  .to  frighten  your  foolish  Zita!  You  would  not  make 
a  Mazzini  a  thief!" 

He  tried  to  push  her  away,  to  raise  her  to  her  feet. 
"Little  sister,"  he  said,  "you  speak  extravagantly.  Our 
father's  name  will  suffer  no  dishonour.  Out  of  all  the 
things  that  I  have  dug  up  and  handed  over  to  the  museum, 
I  have  only  kept  these  two  urns." 

"Yes,  Salvatore,  your  hands  have  been  clean,  your  honour 
unstained.  Every  man  and  woman  respects  you,  every 
citizen  of  Girgenti  honours  you.  But  you  will  be  an  honest 
man  no  longer,  the  Casa  Salvatore  will  not  deserve  our 
neighbour's  respect."  She  took  his  hands  in  hers.  "While 
they  are  still  clean,  let  me  kiss  them,  Salvatore  mio,  while 
they  are  still  worthy  of  our  father's  name.  And  oh,  what 
is  money  without  self-respect?  What  is  money  compared 
to  our  happiness  ?  And  we  are  happy  now." 

"What  is  self-respect  or  anything  else  worth  to-day, 
without  money?"  he  said  bitterly.  "And  after  all  I  only 
want  enough  to  give  me  my  chance  in  life,  enough  to  pay 
for  the  education  to  which  my  abilities  entitle  me.  Every 
man  has  a  right  to  that." 

"Salvatore,  have  you  then  ceased  to  believe  that  the  good 
God  gives  us  all  we  deserve,  all  that  in  His  wisdom  He 
considers  good  for  us?  Have  you  forgotten  our  mother's 
prayers,  her  teachings  ?" 

"Tell  me,  Zita,  why  does  God  consider  that  the  Signor 
Giacomo  Amadei,  who  is  scarcely  ever  sober  and  whose 
daughters  have  run  away  to  America  because  of  his  wicked- 
ness and  bad  temper,  should  own  the  wealthiest  sulphur 
mines  in  Sicily?  Why  should  he  have  a  thousand  lire  for 


38  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

every  centesimo  I  have  ever  earned?  He  does  no  work,  he 
lives  on  the  labour  of  ill-fed  workers." 

"He  has  a  bad  heart,  Salvatore  mio.  God  has  given 
you  a  good  one.  Besides,  God  has  given  poor  Signer 
Amadei  cross-eyes  and  a  crimson  nose  and  bent  legs." 
Zita's  attempt  at  mirth  was  more  tearful  than  her  weeping. 

Salvatore  kissed  her.  "You  will  soon  forget  that  the 
urns  are  here,  baby.  Some  boards  and  my  beg-rug  will 
cover  the  place  where  they  lie  and  when  the  Signore  has 
found  an  American  millionaire  we  will  take  them  away." 

"Ah!"  she  cried.  "It  is  the  Signore's  doing — he  has 
persuaded  you !"  Zita  was  on  her  feet,  her  slim  body  was 
trembling ;  her  eyes,  which  one  moment  before  had  been  full 
of  tears,  were  burning  like  two  live  coals  in  her  pale  face. 
"Yes,  it  is  all  the  Signore's  doing,"  she  cried.  Her  voice 
rang  through  the  cottage. 

"You  are  always  ready  to  believe  ill  of  the  Signore,"  he 
said.  "Where  should  we  be  without  him?  He  has  been 
generous,  he  has  done  you  no  harm." 

"Grazie  a  Dio,"  she  said  gravely,  "he  has  done  me  no 
harm.  But  please,  please  do  not  trust  him ;  he  is  a  fox ; 
he  will  get  you  into  trouble  and  then  leave  you  to  get  out 
of  it  as  best  you  can." 

"Why  do  you  hate  the  Signore?" 

"Because  .  .  ."  she  hesitated,  "I  do  not  trust  him. 
He  is  a  Croat." 

"Foolish  girl !"     Salvatore  laughed. 

His  sister's  words  were  childish  and  yet  they  had  their 
meaning.  The  Signore  was  an  Austrian  subject;  he  had 
served  in  the  Austrian  Army.  But  to  Zita  he  was  worse 
than  an  Austrian,  he  was  a  Croat.  In  southern  Italy  and 
Sicily  the  word  "Croat"  has  not  the  same  significance  as 
it  has  in  Venice  and  in  the  Province  of  Venetia ;  yet  even  in 
Sicily,  the  word  has  an  evil  meaning,  a  nasty  sound.  To 
trust  a  Croat  was  to  trust  a  fox  in  sheep's  clothing,  a 
servant  of  Austria. 

"I  may  be   foolish,   Salvatore,  but  I  wish  to  remain 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  39 

honest.  I  would  rather  you  never  saw  the  Signore  again 
and  that  you  lost  your  work  than  become  a  tool  in  his 
hands,  for  that  is  what  you  will  be  ...  his  tool." 

Salvatore's  temper  was  rising.  "Per  Bacco!"  he  said. 
"You  shall  not  say  that  again!  You  forget  yourself. 
Call  me  any  man's  tool  and  you  insult  your  father's  son. 
A  Croat's  tool !  Never !" 

"Prego,  fratello  mio,  forgive  me.  But  it  is  true  and  you 
will  remember  what  Zita  told  you  when  it  is  too  late.  If 
you  dirty  your  hands  with  the  Signore's  work  you  will 
make  yourself  his  slave;  he  will  drill  and  order  you  about 
and  steep  you  in  still  more  dishonourable  trades." 

Salvatore  sprang  to  his  feet.  "Go  to  bed!"  he  shouted. 
"Go  to  bed !  This  is  my  house ;  to-morrow  night  the  urns 
are  coming  into  it  and  I  am  going  to  dig  their  beds. 
Begone." 

The  brother  and  sister  stood  glaring  at  each  other. 
Both  of  them  had  hot  tempers  and  both  of  them  were 
utterly  wretched.  It  was  the  first  time  since  he  had  grown 
to  manhood  that  he  had  spoken  roughly  to  her. 

"If  you  want  money  so  badly,"  Zita  said,  "I  too  know 
of  a  way  to  make  it.  I  have  my  body ;  men  call  it  beauti- 
ful. Let  me  sell  it.  It  would  be  more  honourable,  for  at 
least  it  is  my  own;  it  would  not  be  making  a  thief  of  my 
father's  son.  You  know  that  young  women  can  alwayi 
make  money." 

Salvatore  raised  his  hand  to  strike  her.  She  dropped 
quickly  to  the  floor  and  so  avoided  the  blow.  His  hand  fell 
to  his  side.  He  stood  motionless,  looking  at  the  quivering 
figure  of  the  unhappy  girl  at  his  feet.  The  next  moment 
Zita  crept  from  the  room. 

Far  into  the  night  she  lay  listening  to  the  noise  of  her 
brother's  spade  digging  up  the  kitchen  floor.  She  could 
hear  the  sound  of  soil  being  thrown  up,  for  her  bedroom 
lay  just  across  the  narrow  passage  which  divided  the  two 
rooms. 

When  the  bed  for  the  urns  was   dug  and  the  boards, 


40  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

which  he  had  stored  in  readiness  for  their  coming  in  his 
work-shop  at  the  back  of  the  cottage,  were  ingeniously 
placed  over  the  hole,  and  the  earth  which  had  come  out  of 
it  was  put  into  two  sacks,  Salvatore  sat  down  in  his  cus- 
tomary place  at  the  table  and  stretching  his  arms  out, 
buried  his  head  on  them.  He  was  the  most  unhappy  youth 
in  Girgenti  that  night. 

The  first  half  of  the  Signore's  dirty  work  was  accom- 
plished ;  already  he  felt  that  his  honour  was  smirched,  that 
his  hands  would  never  again  be  clean.  He  had  actually 
raised  his  hand  to  strike  Zita,  the  one  thing  on  earth  that 
was  dearer  to  him  than  life  itself! 

He  loved  her  a  thousand  times  more  for  her  horror  of  his 
dishonesty,  for  her  pride  in  his  name.  He  knew  that  she 
was  not  speaking  wildly  when  she  said  that  in  her  eyes  to 
sell  her  body  would  be  less  dishonourable.  And  yet  he  was 
going  to  do  the  Signore's  work.  He  was  defying  his  con- 
science and  hurting  Zita.  He  was  doing  it  because  a  man 
is  ruled  by  a  thousand  desires  and  is  driven  by  countless 
forces.  Besides,  he  had  gone  too  far  to  turn  back ;  he  had 
agreed  to  the  Signore's  plans,  which  had  all  seemed  very 
simple  and  far  less  dishonourable  than  when  he  had  heard 
them  from  Zita's  lips. 

The  Signore  had  told  him  of  instances  where  officials 
holding  important  positions  had  mixed  themselves  up  in  the 
illicit  trade,  both  in  Egypt  and  in  Greece,  and  when  the 
traffic  was  discovered  the  scandal  was  hushed  up  ;  the  guilty 
parties  went  unpunished.  When  the  Signore  told  Salva- 
tore these  things,  and  how  all  sorts  of  traps  had  to  be  set 
to  catch  the  thieves,  and  stringent  regulations  laid  down 
which  the  curio-dealers  were  compelled  to  obey,  it  did  not 
seem  to  be  a  thing  of  much  consequence  if  he  took  the  two 
urns  which  he  had  found. 

When  Zita  put  her  view  of  the  case  bluntly  before  him, 
the  affair  took  on  a  different  aspect.  He  saw  himself  a 
thief  and  a  betrayer  of  the  generous  trust  which  the 
authorities  had  placed  in  him. 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  41 

Pie  was  lying  across  the  table,  half  asleep,  his  head  still 
buried  in  his  arms,  when  Zita  crept  into  the  room.  The 
long  braids  of  her  hair  hung  on  either  side  of  her  pale  face ; 
her  neck  and  shoulders  were  bare ;  the  string  of  red  coral — 
the  beads  which  the  Signore  had  spoken  of  so  slightingly — 
encircled  her  white  throat.  Zita's  nightgown  was  a  crochet- 
trimmed  chemise  which  reached  to  her  ankles. 

Salvatore  had  not  heard  her  footsteps ;  her  feet  were 
bare.  She  put  one  hand  on  his  head.  He  was  startled ;  his 
eyes  questioned  her. 

"You  want  to  say  you  are  sorry,  fratello  mio?  And  I 
cannot  sleep  until  we  are  friends."  She  kissed  his  worn 
face.  "Won't  you  go  to  bed?  It  is  almost  time  to  get  up." 

Salvatore  still  looked  at  her.  Her  feet  were  powdered 
with  the  soil  which  he  had  left  on  the  cottage  floor.  His 
little  Gioconda  was  as  gentle  and  soft-eyed  as  his  anxious 
mother  had  always  been.  Like  a  penitent  Magdalen  she 
stood  by  his  side,  her  liquid  e}res  asking  for  his  forgiveness. 

"Carina,"  he  said,  "carina  mia,  go  to  bed.  Why  are 
you  not  asleep  ?" 

"If  you  will  go  to  bed,  I  will  go  to  sleep,  Salvatore." 

Even  in  her  brother's  eyes  the  girl  was  exquisite.  How 
could  his  hand  have  been  raised  to  strike  her?  The  little 
Zita,  whom  he  had  nursed  and  cherished  and  starved  him- 
self to  satisfy. 

"You  have  forgiven  me,  baby  ?    I  was  a  savage." 

Zita's  smiling  face  was  all  the  answer  her  brother  needed. 
He  knew  that  now  as  always  he  had  only  to  ask  for  her 
forgiveness  and  all  discord  was  wiped  out. 

She  went  back  to  bed,  thankful  that  she  had  not  told  him 
of  her  miserable  adventure;  he  looked  unhappy  enough 
without  any  additional  anxiety.  She  must  learn  to  manage 
her  own  affairs. 


42  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 


CHAPTER  IV 

SALVATORE  did  not  go  to  the  farm  the  next  day.  He  told 
Zita  that  he  meant  to  spend  the  time  in  cleaning  and  mend- 
ing his  store  of  Greek  antiques.  It  was  now  the  height  of 
the  tourist  season  in  Sicily  and  all  that  he  mended  and 
cleaned  he  sold  readily  to  the  visitors  at  the  temples. 

One  end  of  the  table  which  ran  along  the  cottage  wall 
close  to  the  window  was  littered  with  amphorae,  votive  vases 
and  objects  of  Greek  toilet  tables,  jewel-boxes  and  cosmetic 
jars ;  while  in  a  separate  heap  at  the  other  end  there  were 
the  heads  and  bodies  and  feet  of  terracotta  statuettes  which 
in  the  sixth  century  B.C.  had  represented  gods  and  god- 
desses. 

Salvatore  was  busily  engaged  in  putting  together  with 
his  extraordinary  delicacy  of  touch  a  toilet  box  made  of 
terracotta.  It  was  covered  with  a  fine  black  glaze  and  the 
figures  on  it,  of  a  deep  red,  showed  that  it  belonged  to  a 
very  good  period  of  Greek  art;  they  were  beautifully 
formed.  Unfortunately  the  lid  was  badly  broken.  To 
Salvatore,  however,  the  word  "unmendable"  was  unknown ; 
when  he  had  mended  it  no-one  would  be  able  to  tell  with 
the  naked  eye  that  it  had  ever  been  damaged.  His  hands 
could  mend  a  butterfly  and  put  together  a  smashed  egg 
shell. 

He  was  thus  engaged  when  a  knock  came  to  the  door ;  it 
was  the  knock  of  a  foreigner,  easily  distinguishable  by  his 
sensitive  ears. 

"Please  to  enter,"  he  cried  out  in  English.  He  could  not 
leave  his  seat  at  the  minute  without  injuring  his  work. 

With  the  lightness  of  almond  blossom  fluttering  in  a 
spring  breeze,  an  English  girl  entered  his  kitchen  workshop. 

"La  Primavera,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he  looked  at  her. 
The  girl  wore  a  white  muslin  frock  and  a  panama  hat.  She 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  43 

was  so  fresh  and  fair  and  slim  that  if  the  poet-painter 
Botticelli  had  seen  her  as  Salvatore  saw  her,  he  would 
have  painted  a  second  "La  Primavera."  Her  arms  were 
full  of  wild  flowers  which  she  had  gathered  near  the 
temples ;  their  rick  yellow  and  purple  brought  a  glow  of 
colour  into  the  room.  To  Salvatore  the  girl  was  not  real ; 
she  was  a  vision,  a  dream  of  mystic  womanhood.  She  had 
brought  the  fresh  air  of  the  hills  and  a  fragrance  of  wild 
flowers  into  his  room,  which  until  her  coming  had  smelt  of 
hot  glue. 

"May  I  come  in?"  The  girl  spoke  in  nervous  but  cor- 
rect Italian ;  each  word  was  pronounced  prettily  and  care- 
fully. 

Salvatore  rose  from  his  seat — the  toilet-box  must  take 
its  chance.  Zita  had  gone  with  a  neighbour  to  the  public 
washing  establishment  to  do  her  weekly  washing;  he  must 
play  her  part  as  hostess. 

"Prego,  Signorina,  command  me,"  he  said.  Salvatore's 
manner  was  perfect.  He  was  to  the  girl  an  artist  in  his 
workshop,  not  a  peasant. 

Her  eyes  fell  on  the  terracottas;  she  looked  eagerly  at 
them.  "I  was  told  you  sold  small  antiques."  Her  little 
stock  of  Italian  was  leaving  her ;  she  felt  shy,  for  the  youth 
was  no  ordinary  vendor  of  spurious  antiques. 

"Si,  si,  Signorina,  these  are  for  sale  when  they  are 
repaired." 

"But  I  want  to  buy  a  Venus,  a  pure  Greek  one,  if  you 
please." 

"Mi  displace  (I  am  sorry),  Signorina,"  Salvatore 
shook  his  head;  his  eyes  could  not  hold  back  their  smiles. 

"Oh,  but  you  surely  must  have  one!  Look  at  all  these 
things."  She  now  spoke  slowly  in  English;  her  school- 
book  Italian  was  proving  insufficient. 

His  English  was  better  than  her  Italian,  although  gram- 
matically she  spoke  fairly  correctly.  If  she  had  been  less 
shy  she  would  have  spoken  better.  Salvatore  had  studied 
English;  it  was  necessary  for  the  sale  of  antiques. 


44  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

"I  am  sorry,  Signorina,"  he  said  in  English,  "but  I  have 
no  beautiful  figures." 

"Oh,  you  speak  English !"  she  said,  with  a  relieved  smile. 

"A  very  little,  Signorina.  I  can  understand  more  than 
I  can  pronounce,  if  you  will  speak  not  so  quickly." 

"Well,  I  want  a  statuette  of  a  Venus,  or  one  of  those 
beautiful  Greek  dancing  girls,  just  like  the  ones  I  have 
seen,  in  the  museums — or  like  the  Greek  lady  with  the  fan — 
do  you  know  the  one  I  mean?" 

"Piano,  piano,  Signorina !    You  speak  too  quickly." 

The  girl  slowly  repeated  her  words. 

"Ma,  Signorina,  I  have  not  got  one.  Such  figures  are 
rare  in  Sicily.  The  one  you  mean  is  of  the  pure  Tanagra 
period ;  it  was  probably  imported  from  Tanagra." 

"But  look  at  all  these."  She  picked  up  the  head  of  a 
goddess.  "You  have  quantities  of  these,  but  they  are  so 
ugly,  so  crude.  I  want  a  really  beautiful  one,  please." 

"Si,  si,  Signorina,  I  understand.     I  am  very  sorry." 

"Have  you  no  figures  of  Greek  girls,  nothing  classic  in 
type  and  feeling?" 

Salvatore  shook  his  head. 

"Why  haven't  you?"  she  asked. 

"Because  they  are  rare,  Signorina.  When  we  find  them 
they  go  to  the  museums.  Figures  with  movement  and 
beauty  are  worth  much  money.  There  are  many  of  these," 
his  eyes  indicated  a  pile  of  broken  figures.  "If  they  were 
not  very  numerous  and  in  this  condition  I  should  not  be 
permitted  to  sell  them." 

"Why  did  they  make  them  like  that,  so  lacking  in  beauty, 
when  all  the  world  loves  beauty,  and  the  Greeks  could  make 
such  exquisite  statues?" 

"Tell  me,  Signorina,  why  does  God  not  make  every 
woman  as  fair  as  an  asphodel?  If  you  can  tell  me  that,  I 
will  tell  you  why  they  made  all  these  unbeautiful  things." 

Salvatore's  eyes  had  expressed  more  than  his  words ;  they 
quickened  the  blood  in  her  veins.  In  this  little  cottage  she 
had  discovered  a  true  artist  and  one  of  the  best-looking  men 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  45 

she  had  ever  seen  in  her  life.  He  was  more  classic  than  any 
of  the  images  he  was  mending. 

"I  am  so  disappointed,"  she  said.  "I  wanted  to  buy  a 
really  beautiful  Greek  figure.  I  was  sure  you  would  have 
one." 

Again  Salvatore  said,  "I  am  sorry,  Signorina,  but 
Girgenti  is  not  Tanagra.  The  figures  found  in  Girgenti 
belong  to  an  earlier  period ;  they  were  made  before  the  fine 
Tanagra  artists  were  born.  They  are  almost  all  votive 
figures  made  in  stereotyped  moulds ;  they  do  not  represent 
beautiful  ladies,  but  the  goddesses.  They  are  like  the 
cheap  figures  of  the  Virgin  and  the  saints  which  to-day  are 
turned  out  in  the  factories,  all  from  the  same  mould.  They 
are  not  individual  works  of  art." 

"Oh,  I  understand,"  the  girl  said.  "The  beautiful  ones 
are  the  works  of  artists,  made  for  their  beauty ;  these  ugly 
things  were  offerings  which  the  poor  bought  for  the  tombs 
and  the  temples." 

"Si,  si,  Signorina,  they  are  generally  found  in  tombs, 
nearly  all  of  them  are  anterior  to  the  destruction  of  the  city 
in  B.C.  406.  That  is  too  early  for  the  best  work.  If  we 
could  come  across  some  which  belonged  to  a  later  period, 
they  would  be  more  beautiful,  more  interesting." 

"Would  they?" 

"Prego,  Signorina,  as  art  and  the  love  of  beauty  de- 
veloped the  better  figurines  became  more  desired.  The 
artists  delighted  in  their  work;  Tanagra  became  famous 
for  its  figurines,  which  were  so  eagerly  purchased  that  very 
few  left  Tanagra;  one  or  two  have  reached  Sicily,  but  at 
Girgenti" — he  threw  back  his  head— "they  are  so  rarely 
found  that  they  must  go  to  the  museums.  You  could  not 
buy  one,  Signorina." 

"And  these?"  The  girl  looked  at  a  jumble  of  heads  and 
feet  and  trunks  of  bodies  on  the  table.  "What  are  these?" 

"These,"  he  said,  "are  all  from  the  ashpits  outside  the 
temples.  They  were  thrown  there  by  the  priests  to  make 
room  for  new  offerings,  just  as  dead  flowers  are  thrown  out 


46  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

from  the  altar  vases  in  our  churches.  Before  they  threw 
them  out,  they  broke  them,  if  they  were  not  too  lazy." 

"Why  had  they  to  break  them?" 

"They  had  been  used  for  sacred  purposes;  it  was  for- 
bidden that  they  should  be  put  to  everyday  use." 

"So  is  that  why  they  are  all  smashed?" 

"The  heads  and  the  feet  of  the  statuettes  were  made  of 
solid  terracotta,  so  they  are  nearly  always  perfect ;  the 
bodies  were  hollow." 

The  girl  turned  over  the  damaged  gods  and  examined 
their  faces  critically.  Salvatore  watched  her.  She  handled 
them  as  he  liked  objects  of  great  age  and  beauty  to  be 
handled. 

"They  are  all  frightfully  ugly,"  she  said  sadly,  "ugly 
and  archaic  and  not  human  at  all." 

He  did  not  like  to  ask  her  to  inspect  any  of  the  small 
jewel-cases  and  vases,  for  he  thought  that  it  would  look  as 
if  he  wanted  her  to  buy  some  of  them,  which  was  far  from 
his  thoughts.  All  he  wanted  to  do  was  to  keep  her  in  his 
cottage  as  long  as  possible. 

"I  saw  some  terracotta  figurines  in  the  Palermo  Museum 
which  looked  as  if  they  might  be  portraits  of  society 
women,  the  society  beauties  of  the  day." 

"I  know  them;  they  belong  to  the  fourth  century, 
Signorina ;  they  are  Tanagra  figures  of  the  best  period." 

"And  you  can't  help  me  to  buy  one  in  Sicily?" 

"No,  Signorina.  And  if  I  found  one  the  authorities 
would  not  part  with  it:  it  would  be  dishonest  to  hold  it 
back." 

Salvatore  blushed ;  he  felt  ashamed  of  his  words. 

"Then  you  show  them  all  that  you  find — everything?" 

Salvatore' s  eyes  fell;  the  girl's  words  necessitated  a  lie. 
"What  they  already  have  or  don't  want,  I  may  sell.  Mi 
dispiace,  Signorina,  I  cannot  help  you." 

"Oh,"  the  girl  said,  "how  awfully  honest  you  must  be! 
I  don't  believe  I  could  be  so  honourable.  If  I  found  a  real 
treasure  I  believe  I  should  keep  it."  Salvatore  knew  that 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  47 

she  was  speaking  rashly;  her  personality  and  frankness 
denied  her  assertion. 

His  eyes  expressed  his  disbelief  in  her  capacity  to 
be  dishonest.  "The  English  are  honourable,"  he  said 
gravely. 

She  laughed.  "I  hope  we  always  deserve  your  good 
opinion ;  I  feel  sure  I  could  not  be  as  honest  as  you  are." 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  could  not  look  an  honest 
person  straight  in  the  face.  He  knew  himself  to  be  a  thief. 

"I  shouldn't  steal  a  big  thing,"  she  said  whimsically. 
"I  don't  want  a  huge  cinerary  urn  or  a  statue  of  Jove  or 
that  great  figure  lying  down  on  the  plain,  which  looks  as  if 
it  had  grown  since  it  fell.  But  if  I  found  a  little  Venus  or 
a  necklace  of  ancient  stones,  I  believe  it  would  stick  to  my 
fingers ;  I  should  feel  that  I  had  a  right  to  it.  We  had  a 
saying  as  children,  Finding's  keepings." 

"A  very  beautiful  necklace  was  found  last  year,"  he  said. 
"It  was  extraordinarily  perfect."  He  lifted  up  the  terra- 
cotta jewel-case.  "It  was  found  inside  a  case  just  like 
this." 

"Oh,  how  exciting!  Did  these  little  dishes  really  hold 
jewels?  Where  is  the  necklace  now?" 

Salvatore  threw  back  his  head. 

"You  don't  know?" 

"No.  It  was  lost ;  it  was  a  great  mystery.  Once  more 
it  is  hidden  from  the  world." 

"This  is  beautiful,"  she  said.  She  was  handling  the 
terracotta  jewel-box.  "The  figures  are  full  of  movement 
and  life.  I  never  thought  of  looking  at  these  things." 

"Si,  si,  this  is  a  fine  specimen  and  you  can  study  and 
learn  much  of  ancient  Greek  life  and  fashion  from  these 
domestic  objects." 

"But  you  can't  mend  this  ?" 

"Si,  si,  Signorina,"  he  smiled  reassuringly,  "per  certo." 

"Then  may  I  buy  it?"  The  girl's  eyes  brightened;  she 
was  delighted.  The  desired  Venus  was  almost  forgotten; 
the  foolishly  fragile  jewel-case  was  sufficient  for  the  hour. 


48  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

"No,  Signorina."  Salvatore  shook  his  head;  his  voice 
was  grave. 

"Oh,  but  I  do  really  want  it.  I  thought  you  said  all 
those  things  were  for  sale." 

"You  shall  have  it,  Signorina,  if  you  will  call  again  in 
two  days'  time.  It  will  then  be  ready  for  you." 

"But  you  said  I  could  not  buy  it,  Signor  Mazzini." 

"Gia,  gia,  Signorina,  I  said  so.  It  is  true;  you  cannot 
buy  it." 

She  looked  at  him  for  an  explanation ;  already  she  knew 
that  what  the  Sicilian  does  not  say  is  what  he  really  means. 

"There  are  some  things,  Signorina,  which  money  cannot 
buy,  which  can  only  be  given.  The  piccola  cassetta,  which 
once  adorned  a  Greek  girl's  dressing-table,  is  already  yours. 
If  I  am  not  at  home  when  you  call,  my  sister  will  give  it  to 
you." 

The  girl  did  not  speak.  Something  told  her  why  the 
youth  would  not  sell  the  box;  he  disliked  the  feeling  of 
taking  money  from  her  after  their  personal  conversation. 
It  was  bringing  a  business  element  into  the  situation,  which 
had  been  strangely  devoid  of  it.  She  was  puzzled  to  know 
what  to  do.  He  was  obviously  very  poor,  but  she  could 
not  offer  to  buy  any  of  his  other  curios,  for  she  had  scorned 
them  all.  His  old  brown  velvet  coat  was  weather-stained 
and  sun-bleached ;  his  white  shirt  was  made  of  the  coarsest 
cotton.  Yet  something,  she  did  not  know  what,  told  her 
that  he  was  a  gentleman  and  an  extraordinarily  sensitive 
one  to  boot.  She  was  in  a  land  where  poverty  is  dignity ; 
in  Sicily  good  manners  and  elegance  of  expression  need  no 
teaching. 

"La  Primavera"  was  sitting  near  the  table  on  one  of 
Zita's  cheap  chairs,  recent  acquisitions,  with  brightly  dyed 
fibre-string  seats,  examining  the  lower  portion  of  her 
jewel-casket. 

Salvatore  had  returned  to  his  mending.  There  was  for 
him  an  exquisite  silence  in  the  room.  The  girl's  presence 
filled  it  with  enchantment.  When  she  had  examined  the 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  49 

casket,  she  drew  her  chair  closer  to  the  table  and  began  her 
inspection  of  all  his  small  obj  ects ;  one  by  one  she  lifted 
them  up,  asking  questions  from  time  to  time,  which  showed 
both  intelligence  and  ignorance.  She  was  enjoying  herself 
immensely;  she  liked  fingering  the  antiques,  with  the  soil 
of  Girgenti  still  clinging  to  them. 

They  were  seated  at  the  same  table,  like  fellow-workers 
or  old  companions,  when  a  loud  knock  came  to  the  door. 

"That  will  be  my  aunt,"  the  girl  said.  Her  voice  ex- 
pressed anxiety;  she  looked  at  her  little  wrist-watch. 
"How  the  time  has  flown!"  She  rose  quickly  from  her 
seat  as  her  aunt  bustled  into  the  cottage. 

She  was  a  big,  heavy-busted  woman,  with  elaborately 
dressed  and  expensively  tinted  hair  and  large  black  eyes. 
A  rich  woman,  obviously,  and  one  whose  beauty  had  not 
withstood  her  natural  laziness  and  greed. 

Mrs.  Bullock  disliked  Sicily  because  she  never  got  what 
she  considered  a  good  meal  in  any  of  the  country  places. 
That  poor  food  was  sometimes  well  cooked  she  admitted, 
for  Sicilians  have  been  famed  for  their  cooking  ever  since 
the  days  of  Virgil ;  but  that  she  ever  got  both  good  food 
and  good  cookery  she  denied.  She  was  Christine  Lovat's 
aunt  by  marriage. 

Mrs.  Bullock's  loud  voice  grated  on  Salvatore's  ears; 
instinctively  he  disliked  her. 

"I  thought  you  were  never  coming,  Christine.  What 
have  you  been  doing?"  Mrs.  Bullock's  presence  so  filled 
the  room  that  it  used  up  both  its  air  and  space.  Her  ex- 
pensive clothes  and  atmosphere  of  prosperity  vulgarized 
her. 

"I  am  having  my  first  lesson  in  Greek  art.  I  hoped  to 
buy  a  terracotta  Venus." 

"Now,  Christine,  don't  go  buying  any  more  of  these 
rubbishy  things;  our  luggage  is  heavy  enough  already. 
You'll  never  look  at  them  when  you  get  home." 

"But  I  haven't  bought  anything."  The  girl's  eyes 
dropped;  the  jewel-case  had  been  given  to  her.  It  was  as 


50  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

light  as  air ;  she  would  pack  it  herself  amongst  her  softest 
blouses. 

"You  can  ask  the  young.man  to  tell  me  where  I  can  buy 
some  good  lace.  I  read  in  that  huge  book  in  the  hotel  that 
you  can  get  bargains  in  lace  here.  Ask  him,  Christine." 

Salvatore  being  appealed  to,  threw  back  his  head. 
"No,  Signorina,  I  do  not  know."  His  answer  was  final. 

"Then  come  along,  Christine,  and  leave  all  these  things 
alone." 

When  Christine  said  "good-bye"  to  Salvatore,  her  eyes 
said,  "I  will  call  for  the  jewel-case;  please  forgive  her 
shocking  manners." 

Salvatore  did  not  answer  the  aunt's  "addio."  Her  com- 
ing had  spoilt  his  day;  it  had  turned  spring  into  winter. 

When  Christine  and  Mrs.  Bullock  were  outside  the  cot- 
tage a  wave  of  heat,  like  the  air  from  an  oven,  blew  against 
their  faces.  The  sirocco  is  accountable  for  a  very  great 
deal.  In  Sicily  it  has  eaten  and  is  still  eating  into  the 
golden  stones  of  the  Greek  temples,  just  as  it  is  eating  into 
the  temperament  and  the  health  of  her  people.  Mrs. 
Bullock's  temper  was  affected  by  it.  It  blew  up  white  dust 
and  dirty  pieces  of  paper  into  her  face ;  it  obliterated  every 
trace  of  beauty  to  which  the  sulphur  city  can  lay  claim. 
With  her  sunshade  held  well  in  front  of  her  to  screen  her 
eyes  from  the  dust,  she  almost  fell  into  the  middle  of  a 
flock  of  black  and  white  goats.  Just  in  time  Christine 
came  to  her  rescue. 

"You  might  have  warned  me,  Christine,"  was  all  she  said 
by  way  of  thanks.  "How  was  I  to  see  the  wretched 
animals  ?" 

"I'm  sorry.     I  didn't  notice  that  you  couldn't  see." 

"Walking  along  with  your  head  in  the  clouds  as  usual ! 
For  heaven's  sake  let's  get  out  of  this  beastly  town  as  soon 
as  ever  we  can !  I  wouldn't  have  spent  all  those  francs  in 
driving  up  to  the  city  if  I  had  known  that  I  couldn't  get 
any  lace.  I  do  think  Sicily  is  abominably  over-rated." 
Mrs.  Bullock  had  made  the  remark  a  hundred  times  before. 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  51 

"Shall  we  try  at  the  barber's  shop?"  Christine's  sense 
of  humour  helped  her.  It  sounded  absurd  to  go  to  the 
barber's  shop  for  lace,  but  she  was  in  Sicily. 

"No,  no,  it's  not  worth  while.  If  that  young  man  with 
the  superior  air  and  mighty  fine  teeth  didn't  know  where 
we  could  buy  any,  I  suppose  there  isn't  any  to  be  bought. 
He  would  have  got  his  'squeeze'  from  the  barber." 

Christine  laughed;  she  really  could  not  help  it.  The 
very  idea  of  her  devout  young  scholar,  her  grave 
Dante,  taking  a  "squeeze"  from  the  barber!  It  was  too 
absurd ! 

"You  don't  imagine  that  youth  was  above  a  squeeze,  do 
you?  Why,  the  whole  of  Sicily  lives  on  squeezes.  A  cab- 
man tells  you  of  a  good  hotel ;  he  gets  his  squeeze  from  the 
landlord:  the  landlord  tells  you  of  a  good  photographer; 
he  gets  his  squeeze  from  the  photographer :  if  you  ask  your 
way  to  a  cake-shop,  the  man  who  tells  you  which  one  to  go 
to,  will  get  his  squeeze  in  cakes." 

"Has  it  ever  struck  you,  Aunt,  how  much  squeezing 
there  would  be  in  England  if  our  workmen,  or  we  ourselves, 
were  paid  one  and  twopence  for  twelve  hours'  work?  Some 
of  the  people  in  Sicily  work  nineteen  hours  for  even  less.  I 
think  Sicily  is  wonderful;  its  very  beggars  are  gentlemen 
and  every  young  mother  a  grave  Madonna." 

"That's  one  way  of  looking  at  things.  You  shut  your 
eyes  to  the  dust  and  dirt  and  fleas  and  to  the  idle  wretches 
who  ought  to  be  working." 

"Ought  to  be  working?  That's  just  it!  But  if  there 
isn't  any  work  to  do,  is  it  a  crime  to  sleep  in  the  sun?" 

"Call  me  one  of  those  silly  jolting  cabs,  Christine.  You 
always  see  things  from  an  exaggerated  point  of  view. 
Lancashire  people  would  find  something  to  do." 

The  girl  beckoned  to  a  cabman  who  had  been  following 
them  down  the  street.  When  her  aunt  had  seated  herself 
carefully  in  his  carriage  she  said,  "Tell  him  not  to  go  at  a 
breakneck  pace;  I  don't  intend  to  endure  what  I  did  last 
night." 


52  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

Christine  did  her  best  to  explain  to  the  man  that  the  lady 
was  nervous,  that  they  wished  to  go  slowly. 

The  man  said,  "Si,  si,  Signorina,  I  understand,"  and  off 
they  started  at  a  walk,  which  soon  degenerated  into  a  crawl. 
Christine  was  in  despair. 

"The  man's  a  fool,"  Mrs.  Bullock  said.  "Just  because 
I  didn't  want  to  have  my  neck  broken  going  down  that 
steep  hill,  we  are  to  crawl  through  these  streets !" 

Christine  called  out,  "Piu  avanti." 

When  the  man  cracked  his  whip  the  horse  kicked  up  its 
hind  legs  and  put  its  head  down  on  the  ground.  Mrs. 
Bullock  clutched  at  Christine  and  screamed.  Hearing  her 
cry  the  man  gave  the  animal  such  a  beating  with  the  butt 
end  of  his  whip  that  it  started  off  at  a  clattering  pace 
through  the  ill-paved  streets.  Children  lying  in  the  dust 
were  sent  helter-skelter;  men  with  portable  shops  had  to 
hurl  them  on  to  the  sidewalk  to  get  them  out  of  danger; 
the  goats  which  had  so  nearly  upset  Mrs.  Bullock  a  few 
minutes  before  dropped  their  milk  from  their  heavy  udders 
as  they  scattered  themselves  about  the  street ;  water-sellers 
cursed  at  the  cabman  and  consigned  his  unborn  offspring 
to  eternal  damnation. 

Through  the  street  they  went  at  an  absurd  rate,  which 
the  horse  kept  up  until  it  reached  the  rough  road.  There 
its  little  spurt  of  temper  was  quickly  exhausted ;  it  was  not 
capable  of  sustained  effort.  The  driver  looked  round  and 
smiled  triumphantly.  His  wild  steed  was  conquered;  the 
lady  need  have  no  more  fear. 

Christine  could  think  of  nothing  to  say  which  would  win 
back  her  aunt's  good  humour.  It  was  an  ugly  day,  relax- 
ing and  uninspiring,  just  the  sort  of  day  that  Christine 
would  have  enjoyed  spending  in  the  Casa  Salvatore,  learn- 
ing from  its  padrone  practical  lessons  in  classic  Sicily. 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  53 


CHAPTER  V 

WHEN  they  reached  the  Hotel  des  Temples,  Mrs.  Bullock's 
face  brightened;  here  at  least  was  comfort  and  modern 
civilisation.  Here  she  knew  that  she  could  find  people  to 
talk  to,  and  people  with  whom  she  could  play  bridge  on  a 
day  which  was  intolerable  for  driving. 

"I  spoke  to  a  very  nice  foreigner  who  is  staying  in  the 
hotel  this  morning,  Christine.  He  is  going  to  make  a  hand 
at  bridge  with  us  to-night.  He  is  really  quite  nice.  There 
he  is !" 

Their  cab  had  pulled  up  with  a  jerk  at  the  entrance  to 
the  hotel.  "II  Signore,"  as  Zita  called  him,  was  standing 
on  the  doorstep.  He  hurried  forward  and  helped  Mrs. 
Bullock  to  alight.  He  had  seen  her  niece  at  table  d'hote 
the  night  before.  He  had  also  seen  her  start  off  alone  to 
the  city  directly  she  had  finished  her  breakfast.  Only  an 
English  girl  would  have  chosen  to  walk  such  a  distance 
on  such  a  day. 

Mrs.  Bullock  smiled  graciously  to  the  good-looking  man 
who  was  ready  to  pay  her  pretty  attentions. 

"This  is  my  niece,  Christine  Lovat,"  she  said.  Christine 
had  sprung  from  the  cab  unaided. 

"Lovat?"  he  said.  "That  is  a  Scots  name,  is  it  not?" 
His  attention  was  still  given  to  Mrs.  Bullock. 

"Yes,  Lovat  is  a  Scots  name,  but  how  very  clever  of  you 
to  know  it!  It  is  not  obviously  Scots  like  Mackinnon  or 
Macdonald.  Have  you  ever  lived  in  Scotland?" 

"No,  that  is  a  pleasure  to  come,"  he  said,  "but  I  have 
read  your  ballads,  I  know  your  history." 

"I  am  English,"  Mrs.  Bullock  said.  "I  am  from  prosaic 
Lancashire — Manchester."  She  was  almost  sorry  to  have 
to  admit  the  fact. 

"A  musical  people.  You  are  fond  of  music  ?  I  am  sure 
you  are." 


54  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

"Yes,  I  love  it."  Mrs.  Bullock  spoke  the  truth.  Music 
was  her  humanising  passion.  But  she  did  not  appreciate 
the  old  music  of  Sicily;  it  was  too  Arcadian,  too  elusive. 
"Do  you  play  the  piano?"  she  asked  eagerly.  "I  am  long- 
ing to  hear  some  good  music  again." 

"If  you  will  allow  me,  I  will  play  to  you  this  evening.  I 
do  not  pretend  to  be  a  musician,  but  I  can  play  a  little." 

So  far  Christine  had  not  spoken.  There  was  something 
about  the  personality  of  the  man  which  attracted  her  and 
interested  her  even  while  it  repelled  her.  He  was  good- 
looking  in  an  interesting  and  magnetic  manner;  his  men- 
tality was  keenly  alive.  But  it  seemed  to  her  that  he  was 
pandering  to  her  aunt's  vanity,  for  what  reason  she  could 
not  imagine.  She  was  not  the  sort  of  woman  to  really 
attract  a  man  of  his  type. 

After  a  few  minutes'  further  conversation,  Mrs.  Bullock 
said,  "We  must  get  some  of  this  awful  dust  brushed  off 
before  lunch,  Christine,  so  for  the  present  addio,  Signer 
Zarano." 

Signer  Zarano,  or  Count  Andrea  Zarano,  as  he  was 
officially  styled  (he  preferred  to  drop  his  title  in  everyday 
life ;  it  had  its  uses  when  social  influence  was  necessary,  but 
in  his  work  as  an  archaeologist  it  was  a  drawback)  stood 
looking  at  both  Christine  and  her  aunt  until  they  had  dis- 
appeared up  the  stair.  The  elder  woman  was  what  Italian 
men,  who  admire  fat  women,  would  call  "superba."  Signor 
Zarano  did  not  admire  large  women.  The  girl  was  en- 
chanting. In  Sicily  she  was  as  cool  and  refreshing  to  the 
eye  on  a  sirocco  day  as  a  meadow  full  of  lady-smocks. 

He  went  into  the  public  sitting-room  and  sat  himself 
down  at  the  piano.  He  was  playing  when  Christine  and 
her  aunt  came  downstairs. 

Christine  stopped.  "Listen,  Auntie!  That  is  how  he 
plays — that  is  being  able  to  'play  a  little.' ' 

"I  knew  he  would  play  well  if  he  played  at  all,  my  dear. 
He  is  the  sort  of  man  who  never  would  do  a  thing  at  all,  if 
he  did  not  do  it  well." 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  55 

Christine  knew  that  she  had  been  correct  in  her  judg- 
ment; her  aunt's  vanity  had  been  touched  by  "the 
foreigner's"  charming  manners  and  his  tactful  attentions. 
Mrs.  Bullock  was  susceptible  to  flattery.  Before  going 
down  to  lunch  she  had  taken  more  than  usual  care  to 
powder  her  nose  effectively,  and  she  had  also  put  on  one  of 
her  freshest  and  most  expensive  crepe-de-chine  blouses. 

Christine  had  not  changed,  but  she  had  taken  off  her  big 
panama  hat  and  brushed  the  dust  out  of  her  luxuriant  hair. 
For  her  age  she  looked  very  young  and  extremely  natural. 

During  lunch  her  quick  eyes  took  in  every  detail  of  the 
scene  outside  and  of  the  new  visitors  at  the  different  tables. 
She  found  amusement  in  watching  their  varying  expres- 
sions. Some  of  them  seemed  wholly  intent  upon  the  coming 
food;  was  there  going  to  be  anything  to  eat  which  they 
considered  good  food,  or  was  it  going  to  be  risotto,  dyed 
yellow  with  saffron?  Sicily  was  forgotten;  lunch  for  the 
time  being  usurped  their  intelligence.  There  were  others, 
in  the  minority  certainly,  who  looked  as  if  it  were  a  terrible 
nuisance  to  have  to  waste  time  on  eating  food  at  all.  Any- 
thing would  do  for  them  while  Sicily  was  calling  and  their 
days  were  limited.  These  ardent  souls  ate  their  omelettes 
whilst  they  read  their  guide-books,  with  the  white  dust  of 
the  high  road  still  on  their  boots  and  clothes. 

With  a  smile  lighting  up  her  very  blue  eyes  they  met  the 
intent  gaze  of  Count  Andrea  Zarano.  She  blushed  until 
her  very  neck  was  rosy.  It  was  absurd  to  behave  like  a 
school-girl,  for  he  had  only  looked  at  her,  and  since  her 
arrival  in  Italy  she  had  very  often  been  looked  at,  even  as 
the  Count  was  looking  at  her  now.  She  was  not  in  the  least 
vain,  but  she  was  perfectly  well  aware  that  she  was  pretty 
and  that  in  Sicily  her  fairness  attracted  general  attention. 
But  therexwas  something  about  this  clever  foreigner's  eyes 
which  disconcerted  her.  They  seemed  to  establish  an 
intimacy  with  her.  She  disliked  the  feeling  and  tried  to 
shake  it  off. 

When  they  had  finished  their  lunch,  she  followed  her 


56  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

aunt  out  into  the  garden,  where  they  always  drank  their 
coffee.  They  had  just  seated  themselves  when  Count 
Zarano  appeared  on  the  scene. 

"Tell  Orestes  to  bring  three  cups,  Christine."  The 
diminutive  Sicilian  waiter  who  was  carrying  the  coffee  was 
called  Orestes.  "Count  Zarano,  you  will  drink  a  cup  of 
coffee  with  us,  won't  you?" 

"Thank  you,  Madam,  this  is  kind  of  you.  I  will  allow 
myself  a  quarter  of  an  hour  of  your  pleasant  society  be- 
fore I  return  to  my  work.  No,  no  brandy,  thank  you." 

"  Work?     Are  you  not  a  tourist,  like  ourselves?" 

"Certainly  not,  Madam.  I  am  engaged  here  on  Govern- 
ment archaeological  work.  At  the  present  moment  I  am 
supervising  the  excavations  at  the  Temple  of  Aesculapius." 
He  shot  a  covert  glance  at  Christine,  who  so  far  had 
ignored  his  acceptance  of  her  aunt's  invitation.  She  con- 
sidered that  it  was  rather  impertinent  of  the  man  to  follow 
them  as  he  had  done  from  the  luncheon  room. 

Did  he  work  with  Salvatore  Mazzini,  she  wondered? 
Still,  she  was  not  to  be  drawn.  Some  feminine  instinct  in 
the  girl  told  her  that  while  he  was  addressing  her  aunt  and 
flattering  her  with  trivial,  un-English  attentions,  he  was 
doing  it  all  with  one  end  in  view ;  he  was  thinking  only  of 
herself.  She  could  feel  his  thoughts  physically  and  she 
knew  that  he  meant  her  to  feel  them. 

When  the  coffee  arrived,  she  carried  off  her  own  cup  to 
a  distant  part  of  the  garden,  where  a  seat  in  the  wall 
afforded  a  splendid  view  of  the  temples.  Count  Andrea 
Zarano  had  to  remain  with  her  aunt,  who  was  delighted  to 
find  herself  in  his  amusing  company.  Recognizing  the  fact 
that  it  would  be  bad  policy  and  worse  manners  to  follow 
the  girl,  he  proceeded  to  put  the  time  to  its  best  use.  To 
win  the  vain  aunt's  good  opinion  meant  future  opportuni- 
ties of  speaking  to  the  niece.  The  girl's  attitude  rather 
pleased  him;  her  youthful  attempt  to  snub  him  amused 
him ;  it  made  the  hunt  more  worth  while. 

Christine  did  not  return  to  her  aunt  until  the  Count's 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  67 

quarter-of-an-hour  had  elapsed.  When  she  seated  herself 
beside  her,  Mrs.  Bullock  said : 

"Don't  you  like  Count  Zarano?  I  hope  he  cjidn't  think 
it  rude  of  you." 

"I  don't  know  enough  about  him  to  like  or  dislike  him. 
I  thought  he  wanted  to  talk  to  you  and  three  is  always  a 
stupid  number." 

Mrs.  Bullock  gathered  together  the  grounds  of  the 
brown  sugar  which  lay  at  the  bottom  of  her  cup.  Candied 
sugar  for  her  black  coffee  was  one  of  the  many  things 
which  she  always  took  with  her  to  foreign  hotels.  At  this 
particular  moment,  she  felt  inclined  for  something  very 
sweet,  something  crunchie,  something  which  would  help  to 
sustain  the  pleasant  feeling  which  her  clever  companion 
had  given  her. 

Christine  watched  her  eat  the  sugar.  She  knew  every 
characteristic  of  her  temperament.  She  knew  that  she  had 
been  simulating  a  feeling  of  intelligent  interest  in  Signer 
Zarano's  archaeological  work,  which  she  would  scarcely 
have  dared  to  express  before  her  niece.  To  Christine  she 
never  even  pretended  to  be  anything  but  bored  with  all  the 
ancient  things  in  Italy  and  Sicily.  She  had  come  to  Sicily 
for  the  winter  for  its  sunshine  and  because  it  had  become 
rather  fashionable  to  go  to  Sicily.  She  enjoyed  doing  the 
fashionable  thing. 

"I  wonder  what  his  nationality  is  ?"  she  said.  "I'm  sure 
he's  not  Italian." 

"Austrian,  I  should  say,"  said  Christine.  "He  is  written 
down  as  Count  Zarano  on  the  room-board  in  the  hall." 

"I  always  liked  Austrians,"  Mrs.  Bullock  said.  "They 
are  such  gentlemen." 

"So  are  Italians,"  Christine  said  hotly.  "In  Sicily  the 
very  beggars  look  aristocrats ;  Italy  is  the  home  of  simple 
dignity." 

"So  you  say.  I  haven't  met  any  of  the  upper  classes 
and  the  rest  of  the  people  seem  to  me  to  be  waiters  and 
mandoline-players." 


58  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

"Oh,  Auntie !"  Christine  said.  Her  eyes  expressed  what 
she  knew  to  be  the  truth — that  her  aunt  had  not  coined  the 
phrase  herself,  that  Count  Zarano  had  probably  used  just 
those  words. 

"He  does  not  look  Sicilian,  does  he?" 

"No,  not  a  bit.  I  don't  think  he  is  one  of  Italy's  true 
sons." 

Mrs.  Bullock  stretched  herself.  "Well,  I  am  going  to 
have  a  siesta.  What  will  you  do  with  yourself  until  tea- 
time?  We  might  take  a  drive  if  the  air  gets  cooler  after 
sundown." 

"Oh,  don't  bother  about  me — I  have  a  thousand  things  I 
want  to  do — to  'read  up'  Girgenti,  for  one  thing,  and  darn 
horrible  stockings  for  another.  Even  in  Sicily  stockings 
won't  give  you  any  peace."  She  kicked  off  her  white 
antelope  slipper.  "Just  look  at  that  toe."  Her  big  toe 
was  sticking  through  her  white  silk  stocking.  "I 
do  think  it  might  behave  itself  in  Sicily;  it's  always  so 
pushing." 

"Alice  is  busy  with  my  things  all  day  long,  washing  my 
fine  bodices  and  brushing  my  dresses.  The  dust  is  awful. 
I  really  couldn't  let  my  undies  go  out  with  the  hotel  wash- 
ing ;  the  things  are  beaten  on  the  stones  just  as  if  they  were 
empty  potato  sacks." 

Christine  knew  that  these  remarks  were  made  to  show 
her  that  she  need  not  expect  Alice  to  do  any  of  her  mending 
for  her. 

"But  I'd  rather  come  to  Sicily  with  no  maid  than  stay  in 
England  and  have  one.  'There  is  a  land  of  pure  Delight, 
where  Gods  immortal  dwell.' '  She  sang  her  favourite 
lines  gaily.  She  was  longing  for  her  aunt  to  go  off  to  her 
rooms  and  leave  her  to  enjoy  herself  in  her  own  way. 

"I'm  sure  it  isn't  pure  delight  on  a  sirocco  day — and  this 
is  only  the  first  day  of  it ;  Signor  Zarano  tells  me  that  the 
sirocco  always  lasts  for  three  days." 

"The  hotel  is  comfy  and  even  on  sirocco  days  the  garden 
is  a  delight.  And  there  are  sure  to  be  lots  of  bridge  hands 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  59 

amongst  all  these  new  visitors.     Bridge  was   surely  in- 
vented for  days  abroad  when  the  sirocco  was  blowing." 

They  parted  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  Mrs.  Bullock  to 
sleep  in  her  bedroom  until  tea-time,  Christine  to  dash  off 
breathless  letters  to  her  girl-friends  in  England. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ONE  evening,  while  Mrs.  Bullock  and  Count  Zarano  and 
two  other  visitors  who  were  staying  in  the  Hotel  des  Tem- 
ples were  enjoying  a  game  of  bridge,  and  Christine  Lovat 
was  puzzling  her  young  brains  over  Sicily's  long  history, 
Salvatore  Mazzini  was  following  a  black  donkey  which 
carried  his  Greek  urns  up  the  hill  to  the  town.  What  he 
had  to  do  had  been  done  so  easily  that  it  seemed  absurd 
that  the  anticipation  of  it  had  kept  him  awake  for  many 
nights. 

Zita  was  waiting  for  him,  a  miserable  little  Zita,  weighefi 
down  by  shame  and  fear.  From  to-night  onwards,  their 
home  was  to  be  dishonoured,  their  hearth  sacrileged.  The 
picture  of  the  Madonna  would  look  down  upon  the  very 
spot  on  the  floor  which  held  Salvatore's  stolen  treasures. 

Zita's  adventure  with  the  Signore  was  still  her  own 
secret.  She  had  not  dared  to  tell  Salvatore,  even  if  by 
doing  so  it  would  have  proved  that  she  was  right,  that  the 
Signore  was  not  the  sort  of  man  in  whom  he  could  put 
implicit  trust.  Zita  knew  that  her  brother  would  cer- 
tainly vindicate  her  honour;  his  own  honour  would  not  let 
him  rest  until  his  vendetta  was  accomplished.  This  being 
the  case,  she  determined  to  keep  the  awful  experience  to 
herself.  It  had  been  a  bitter  punishment  for  her  folly. 

As  Salvatore  followed  his  ass  up  the  long  hill  his 
thoughts  were  in  a  hopelessly  chaotic  state.  He  was  forc- 
ing himself  into  doing  this  deed  which  he  despised  himself 


60  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

for  doing  and  which  he  knew  was  going  to  make  both  his 
own  and  Zita's  days  unbearable.  Why  was  he  doing  it? 
He  could  not  say  why,  only  that  the  will  of  the  Signore 
was  stronger  than  his  own  and  that  he  had  promised  to 
do  it.  He  wanted  money  for  his  career  very,  very  badly, 
but  since  he  had  met  the  English  girl,  he  knew  that  his 
career  could  never  really  matter  if  he  sold  his  honour. 
La  Primavera  respected  him  and  imagined  that  his  sense 
of  honour  was  greater  than  her  own !  If  she  knew  what 
he  was  doing  to-night,  bringing  into  the  town,  under 
cover  of  the  darkness,  his  stolen  goods,  what  would  she 
call  him? 

He  knew  that  she  would  dismiss  him  from  her  mind  as  a 
thief  and  a  low  fellow,  totally  beneath  her  both  socially 
and  morally,  and  that  she  would  never  gladden  his  house 
again.  And  she  was  coming!  Yes,  she  was  coming  to 
claim  her  jewel-case.  Then  his  thoughts  veered  round. 

He  saw  himself  taking  his  place  as  a  distinguished 
student  in  Rome  at  the  School  of  Archaeology.  He  would 
be  able  to  carry  out  his  dream,  which  would  one  day 
make  him  wealthy.  He  would  be  able  to  lead  an  honour- 
able and  useful  life.  How  could  it  matter  if  to  win  all 
this  he  kept  the  two  urns  which  he  had  found  by  mere 
chance?  He  had  not  even  been  digging  at  the  time  when 
he  discovered  them;  they  were  finds  quite  outside  his 
government  work. 

The  black  donkey  toiled  on  and  Salvatore  followed  it — a 
very  ordinary  sight  in  Girgenti,  a  man  bringing  water  to 
his  home  after  his  day's  work. 

When  at  last  he  arrived  at  the  Casa  Salvatore,  he  called 
out  in  a  ringing  voice,  "Acqua,  acqua!" 

The  cottage  door  was  opened  and  Zita  apeared,  large- 
eyed  and  solemn.  If  a  murdered  corpse  had  been  coming 
into  her  house  she  could  not  have  felt  more  guilty,  more 
afraid. 

"Senta !"  Salvatore  said,  as  he  carefully  lifted  one  of 
the  urns  from  the  pig-skin.  It  was  empty  and  very  light, 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  61 

yet  he  lifted  it  as  if  it  were  full  of  water.  A  neighbour 
might  have  noticed  his  late  return  from  the  well. 

As  Zita  took  the  vase  in  her  arms  a  chill  ran  through  her. 
How  she  hated  it !  Her  very  knees  shook  whilst  she  held  it. 
At  Salvatore's  injunction  she  carried  the  dreaded  object  to 
her  bed  and  deposited  it  safely  on  the  cloth  which  she  had 
spread  over  the  grand  quilt.  Salvatore  handed  her  the 
second  urn  in  silence.  In  the  same  manner  it  was  depos- 
ited on  her  bed. 

Then  without  a  word,  Salvatore  shut  the  door  of  the 
cottage  and  called  out, 

"Avanti." 

The  patient  ass  at  once  started  off  at  a  quick  trot;  re- 
lieved of  its  burden,  it  knew  it  was  going  home. 

When  the  door  was  shut  Zita  stood  motionless.  The 
feeble  light  from  the  lamp  which  burnt  beneath  the  picture 
of  the  Virgin  threw  fitful  shadows  across  the  room.  It 
was  too  dark  for  her  to  see  the  figures  and  delicate  tr.acery 
on  the  objects  which  lay  like  two  big  black  birds  of  ill-omen 
on  her  bed.  They  were  large  urns  with  high  handles,  of  a 
delicate  shape  and  workmanship. 

She  remained  looking  at  them,  with  folded  hands.  Their 
grace  of  form  was  obvious  to  the  most  ignorant  eye  and 
her  hands  had  felt  the  perfection  of  their  glaze.  The 
longer  she  looked  at  them  the  more  horrified  she  became. 
They  were  finer  than  any  vases  in  the  Museum. 

When  Salvatore  opened  the  door,  he  found  his  sister 
standing  motionless  beside  the  urns.  He  put  his  arms 
round  her  waist  and  drew  her  close  to  him.  Together 
they  looked  silently  at  the  dark  objects.  Then  impulsively 
Zita  flung  her  arms  round  his  neck. 

"Two  corpses,  Salvatore  mio,  the  corpses  of  our  honour! 
I  saw  the  Angel  of  Truth  fly  out  of  the  door  as  you 
brought  these  things  in." 

"Silenzio!"  Salvatore  cried,  as  he  tried  to  disengage 
himself  from  her  clinging  arms.  "They  are  magnificent. 


62  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

Don  t  you  want  to  examine  them?  Have  you  tost  your 
sense  of  beauty?" 

"No,  no!  I  have  seen  them.  I  have  seen  more  than  I 
want  to  see !  They  are  finer  than  anything  in  the  Museum. 
It  is  their  beauty  which  I  don't  want  to  see,  it  is  their 
beauty  which  is  killing  me!" 

In  silence  Salvatore  freed  himself  from  her  arms.  He 
must  light  the  lamp,  but  before  doing  so  he  must  take  pre- 
cautions, the  same  precautions  as  he  had  taken  the  night 
before — the  precautions  of  a  thief. 

Zita  stood  spellbound  while  he  went  to  the  street  door 
and  stuffed  a  piece  of  cotton-wool  into  the  key-hole.  Al- 
ready he  was  accustomed  to  cunning  and  secrecy ! 

When  the  key-hole  was  plugged  up,  he  did  the  same 
thing  to  the  window,  for  where  the  wooden  shutters  met, 
there  was  a  space  large  enough  for  curious  eyes  to  see 
through.  For  as  high  as  a  man's  head  could  reach  from 
the  level  of  the  street  down  to  the  sill  Salvatore  filled  up 
the  aperture  with  cotton  wool.  When  he  had  finished  he 
lit  the  lamp. 

Zita  buried  her  head  in  her  arms.  Salvatore  spoke 
sharply. 

"Senta!     I  shall  want  your  help." 

She  raised  tragic  eyes  to  his  and  watched  him  uncover 
the  hole  in  the  floor.  She  was  there  to  give  hirn  the 
assistance  which  he  required.  When  the  bed  for  the  urns 
was  ready,  he  took  her  hand. 

"Come  and  look  at  them,"  he  said  gently.  "On  one 
there  is  a  Dionysian  procession;  on  the  other,  the  Birth  of 
Athene.  You  may  never  see  them  again." 

"Please  don't  ask  me  to  look  at  them,  Salvatore."  Her 
voice  was  not  pleading. 

Salvatore  turned  from  her  impatiently  and  went  into 
her  room.  When  he  returned,  with  one  of  the  vases  in  his 
arms,  she  took  it  in  hers,  while  he  placed  himself  in  readi- 
ness to  receive  it  in  the  hole. 

If  he  had  known  Keats's  immortal  lines : — 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  63 

"What  men  or  Gods  are  these?     What  maidens  loath? 
What  mad  pursuit?    What  struggle  to  escape? 
What  pipes,  what  timbrels?    What  wild  ecstacy?" 

surely  he  would  have  repeated  them  as  he  took  his  precious 
burden  from  Zita's  arms  and  laid  it  carefully  in  its  bed  of 
soil  ? 

Salvatore  buried  the  "thing  of  beauty"  carefully  and  in 
silence,  except  for  the  noise  of  falling  earth  as  it  poured 
from  a  sack  into  the  hole. 

The  second  urn  was  buried  in  the  same  manner.  Its 
beauty,  which  should  have  been  a  joy  for  ever,  was  again 
lost  to  the  world.  And  it  must  remain  lost  until  some 
wealthy  American  gave  it  to  his  country,  which  knew  not 
Greece.  But  even  there: 

"The  piping  figures  would  still  play  on." 


Salvatore's  work  was  done.  La  Gioconda  had  gone  tear- 
fully to  bed.  Half-an-hour  later  the  cottage  looked  as  if 
nothing  had  occurred  to  disturb  its  small  routine.  The 
cotton-wool  had  been  removed  from  the  window  and  from 
the  key-hole. 


CHAPTER  VII 

AN  incident  happened  a  few  days  later  which  influenced  the 
whole  current  of  Christine  Lovat's  life.  She  was  seated 
near  the  Temple  of  Juno,  within  the  Temenos,  or  that 
portion  of  land  which  in  classical  days  was  cut  off  from 
the  public  lands  for  the  maintenance  of  the  rulers  of  the 
temples  and  for  the  sports  of  the  gods,  with  her  back  rest- 
ing against  one  of  the  golden-hued  columns. 

The  sirocco  had  exhausted  itself,  and  Sicily  was  once 
more  the  Laughing  Land.  Her  eyes  were  tired  with  the 
flood  of  light  and  the  riot  of  colour  which  everywhere 


64  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

surrounded  her.  Near  by  some  goats  were  satisfying 
themselves  off  a  vegetation  which  all  other  milk-producing 
animals  would  have  scorned.  Suddenly  the  bleating  of  a 
kid  caught  her  ears ;  it  was  the  cry  of  an  animal  in  pain. 
She  rose  from  her  seat,  for  the  distressed  bleating  told 
her  that  the  kid  was  very  young.  After  waiting  for  a 
moment  or  two  she  saw  it  dragging  itself  along  on  three 
shaky  legs ;  it  must  in  falling  from  some  great  height  have 
had  its  leg  crushed  by  a  loose  stone.  Poor  little  thing! 
Her  heart  ached  for  it.  Obviously  the  leg  had  been  broken. 
While  she  was  wondering  what  she  could  do,  she  saw  a 
brown  Homburg  hat  appear  above  the  rocky  precipice  on 
the  outer  side  of  the  temple. 

After  the  hat  came  the  shoulders  and  at  last  the  person 
of  Count  Zarano.  From  his  hidden  position  on  a  ladder  he 
had  heard,  as  Christine  had  done,  the  bleating  of  a  suffer- 
ing kid ;  but  he  had  not  seen  Christine.  He  picked  the  kid 
up  in  his  arms  and  seated  himself  on  one  of  the  fallen 
drums  of  a  column  and  examined  the  leg  carefully.  The 
bleating  grew  less  pitiful. 

Christine's  eyes  were  watching  the  deft  fingers  of  the 
surgeon.  With  the  kid  between  his  knees  he  took  a  hand- 
kerchief out  of  his  pocket  and  tore  it  into  strips ;  then,  with 
fingers  whose  nicety  of  touch  recalled  Salvatore's,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  bind  up  the  broken  limb.  Two  pieces  of  dry 
olive-wood  which  lay  close  at  hand  made  admirable  splints. 

When  the  operation  was  completed,  the  surgeon  took  the 
patient  in  his  arms  and  carried  it  off  to  a  farm-house.  He 
had  been  quite  unconscious  of  the  fact  that  anyone,  least 
of  all  Christine,  had  seen  his  deed  of  mercy. 

The  girl's  senses  had  been  thrilled  by  the  incident.  Her 
eyes  had  never  left  the  Count's  hands  while  he  was  per- 
forming the  delicate  operation ;  they  still  followed  him  as 
he  walked  over  the  rough  ground  with  his  burden  held 
securely  in  his  arms. 

"Well,"  she  said  to  herself,  "that  shows  how  little  I  can 
read  character.  That  proves  I  was  quite  wrong."  She  felt 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  65 

so  ashamed  of  her  lack  of  judgment  and  of  her  instinctive 
distrust  of  the  man,  that  she  longed  to  apologise ;  an  al- 
most childish  desire  came  to  her  to  make  some  atonement 
for  her  conduct. 

That  the  deed  bore  fruit  is  one  of  the  curious  workings 
of  Providence.  Why  had  she  been  permited  to  see  that  act 
of  mercy?  It  was  a  question  which  she  was  often  to  ask 
herself  in  future  years. 

It  was  on  the  evening  of  the  next  day  that  Christine,  to 
atone  for  her  false  judgment  of  her  aunt's  chosen  cavalier, 
allowed  him  to  take  her  to  see  the  temples  by  moonlight. 
Mrs.  Bullock  had  refused  to  go  with  her;  she  preferred  to 
stay  in  the  hotel  and  listen  to  Count  Zarano's  music  rather 
than  risk  a  debacle  to  her  expensively-turned-out  person. 
Christine  did  not  understand  that  what  is  "a  sweet  dis- 
order" at  nineteen,  at  forty-five  becomes  a  damnable  give- 
away. 

"We  can  go  into  the  garden  when  the  moon  rises, 
Christine,  and  look  at  the  temples  from  the  terrace.  They 
will  be  quite  as  beautiful  from  the  distance  in  the  bright 
moonlight." 

Christine  sighed.  "I  should  love  to  see  the  shadows  of 
the  Temple  of  Concordia  when  it  is  lit  up  by  a  full  moon ; 
they  must  look  so  mysterious.  Please  let  me  go  alone! 
Or  may  I  ask  Orestes  if  he  can  come?  He'd  like  a  franc 
or  two." 

"You  can't  do  that,  Christine.  Certainly  not!  Fancy 
going  with  a  waiter  to  the  temples !" 

"Can  I  come  to  the  rescue,  Madam?" 

It  was  the  Count  who  spoke.  He  had  an  uncanny  habit 
of  appearing  unexpectedly  at  their  side. 

"Will  you  allow  me  to  take  your  niece  to  the  temples? 
It  really  is  a  sight  she  ought  not  to  miss.  Even  without  a 
moon  I  prefer  the  temples  at  night." 

Mrs.  Bullock  could  not  refuse  his  timely  offer.  In- 
wardly, she  cursed  herself  for  her  laziness.  To  be  con- 
ducted by  the  Count,  who  was  always  amusing,  over  the 


66  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

ruins  by  moonlight,  and  perhaps  to  hear  him  sing  there, 
was  a  very  different  thing  from  going  alone  with  Chris- 
tine. She  could  have  dressed  herself  suitably  for  the 
occasion. 

"I  shall  be  very  glad  if  you  will  take  her,"  she  said  with 
a  cleverly  simulated  grace.  "These  last  three  days  of 
sirocco  have  reduced  me  to  a  rag — I  really  couldn't  sum- 
mon up  enough  energy  to  scramble  over  those  ruins 
again." 

Christine  looked  delighted.  "How  nice  of  you  not  to 
mind  if  we  leave  you  alone!"  She  turned  to  the  Count. 
"I  won't  be  five  minutes  in  getting  ready,  if  you  can  wait 
for  me."  Her  eyes  thanked  him. 

"In  the  meantime  I  will  play  something  to  your  aunt," 
he  said,  as  he  seated  himself  at  the  piano.  "What  shall  it 
be?"  His  eyes  spoke  volumes;  Mrs.  Bullock  was  re- 
warded. 

Until  Christine  made  her  appearance  he  played  to  her 
aunt  and  talked  to  her  with  his  eyes.  Indeed,  he  left  her 
so  reluctantly  that  Christine  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
in  that  respect  also  she  had  been  mistaken.  He  really  did 
enjoy  her  aunt's  society  and  admired  her. 

While  they  walked  to  the  temples,  Christine  did  her  very 
best  to  be  charming  and  sympathetic,  while  her  companion 
told  her,  as  he  had  told  Zita  only  a  few  days  before,  inter- 
esting stories  about  ancient  Girgenti  and  her  temples  and 
their  builders.  Zita  he  knew  had  practical  knowledge  of  a 
great  deal  about  the  temples,  which  Christine  had  not; 
but  he  also  knew  that  Zita  did  not  know  lots  of  things 
which  needed  no  explanation  for  Christine.  When  they 
reached  the  temples  their  conversation  ceased.  A  scene 
so  sublime  compels  silence. 

The  moon,  which  had  been  rising  higher  and  higher,  had 
now  reached  a  point  in  the  heavens  from  which  it  shone 
right  down  on  the  Temple  of  Concordia.  It  lit  up  the 
surrounding  country  with  a  pale  quiet  light.  Never 
before  to  Christine  had  it  looked  so  beautiful.  Under  the 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  67 

amazing  light  of  a  Sicilian  sun,  it  was  glorious.  But  to- 
night, bathed  as  it  was  in  the  serene  white  radiance  of  the 
moon,  it  was  sacred.  They  were  standing  on  holy  ground. 

"It  would  not  tax  the  imagination  very  greatly,  would 
it,  Miss  Lovat,"  her  companion  said,  "to  visualise  some 
pagan  pageant  slowly  wending  its  way  to  the  temple?  A 
festival  in  honour  of  the  moon !  Can  you  see  the  priest  at 
the  high  altar  waiting  to  receive  the  votive  offerings  ?  Can 
you  see  the  bearers  of  them  walking  under  the  majesty  of 
these  columns?" 

"What  were  their  services  like?"  Christine  asked. 
"One  reads  so  much  about  their  gods  and  the  everyday  life 
of  the  Greeks,  but  so  little  is  ever  said  about  their  beliefs. 
At  any  rate,  I  can't  find  anything." 

"We  don't  know  what  they  actually  believed  in." 

"Really?"     She  looked  surprised. 

"We  know  how  the  Egyptians  worshipped,  and  what 
they  believed  in;  but  not  the  Greeks.  All  the  same,  it 
must  have  been  a  pretty  sound  religion  to  have  produced 
these  temples — they  did  honour  their  gods — that's  one 
thing  we  do  know." 

"Oh,  I  am  enjoying  myself!"  Christine  said  impul- 
sively. "I  am  ever  so  glad  I  came.  The  nights  in  Sicily 
are  wonderful.  And  it  is  so  nice  to  have  someone  who  can 
tell  me  these  things.  The  guardians  of  the  temples  are 
useless." 

"It  is  well  to  see  the  temples  by  night,  for  very  great 
things  have  happened  to  Girgenti  by  night,  though  it  was 
probably  not  on  the  moonlight  nights.  Don't  you  remem- 
ber how  the  people  fled  from  the  Carthaginians  by  night, 
just  as  they  fled  with  the  Carthaginians  from  the  Romans 
by  night?  And  again  a  thousand  years  later  they  fled 
from  the  Saracens  by  night?" 

Christine  shook  her  head.  "Take  it  for  granted  that  I 
know  nothing — I  am  horribly  ignorant.  Sicily  makes  me 
wonder  what  I  ever  did  learn  at  school — of  history,  any- 
how. I  want  to  read  Sicily  all  day  long.  But  how  can  I, 


68  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

and  see  it  as  well?  There  is  so  much  to  read;  it  is  such 
a  long,  long  story." 

"I  can  weed  out  the  facts  for  you  and,  if  you  will  allow 
me,  tell  you  about  them  on  the  actual  spot  where  they  hap- 
pened. That  always  helps  one  to  remember.  Knowing 
her  history  will  explain  her  people  and  their  characteris- 
tics; and  the  types  of  the  people  need  explaining.  The 
Island's  various  invaders  and  the  traces  of  their  civilisation 
explain  a  great  deal.  You  must  remember  that  Girgenti 
was  under  the  Saracen  yoke  for  nearly  three  hundred 
years;  the  Saracens  were  only  driven  out  of  the  Island  by 
Roger,  the  great  Count.  I  say  only,  for  1086  is  late  in 
Sicily's  story.  He  was  the  father  of  Roger  the  King, 
whose  glorious  Arabo-Norman  buildings  you  probably 
saw  in  Palermo.  The  people  here  are  still  very  Saracen; 
towns  like  Girgenti  remained  so  isolated  that  the  types 
are  pure." 

"But  they  aren't  all  Saracen  in  type,"  Christine  said. 
"I  paid  a  visit  to  a  curio-dealer  in  the  town;  he  digs  for 
the  Government." 

The  Count  smiled.     "I  employ  Salvatore  Mazzini." 

"Oh!  You  know  him,  do  you?  Well,  isn't  he  interest- 
ing and  classic  in  feature?" 

"Yes,  there  is  the  purest  Greek  blood  in  the  Mazzinis; 
he  has  a  sister  who  has  come  out  even  closer  to  the  ancient 
Greek  type." 

"I  am  going  to  his  cottage  to-morrow  to  get  a  jewel-case 
which  he  is  mending  for  me.  I  believe  he  could  really 
mend  a  broken  butterfly;  his  hands  are  beautiful."  She 
laughed.  "I  wanted  a  figure  of  a  dancing  girl  or  a  Venus ; 
he  said  he  never  found  any,  that  he  had  none  for  sale." 

"If  he  did  find  one,  he  would  not  be  allowed  to  keep  it." 

"That  is  what  he  said.  How  honest  he  must  be!  No- 
one  would  be  any  the  wiser  if  he  kept  little  tiny  objects, 
would  they?" 

"It  pays  him  to  be  honest;  most  individuals,  like  most 
countries,  are  honest  because  it  pays  them  to  be.  Sicily 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  69 

has  not  yet  discovered  that  honesty  in  commerce  means 
prosperity." 

"Do  you  like  the  Sicilians?" 

"Inasmuch  that  I  cannot  help  liking  all  beautiful 
people.  Commercial  Sicily  is  an  anathema." 

"I  thought  that  youth  who  sells  antiques  was  more  than 
usually  refined  and  cultivated.  He  interested  me;  he 
seemed  an  artist  by  nature  and  his  work  is  so  fascinating; 
I  could  have  spent  hours  watching  him." 

"He  would  be  very  flattered  if  he  heard  you  say  so." 

"I'm  sure  he  is  not  so  silly  as  to  be  flattered  by  my 
ignorant  interest  in  his  work." 

The  Count  restrained  himself  from  saying  what  he  really 
thought  and  felt;  he  merely  said,  "Salvatore  Mazzini  works 
under  me.  I  see  all  he  finds — he  is  quite  an  intelligent 
youth." 

Christine  was  almost  certain  that  she  could  detect  a 
slight  tone  of  dislike  in  her  companion's  voice;  a  sugges- 
tion that  she,  like  so  many  tourists,  was  open  to  the  flat- 
tery and  good  looks  of  Sicily's  humbler  classes;  so  she  let 
the  subject  drop  and  interested  herself  in  her  surround- 
ings. They  had  arrived  at  the  fallen  Telamon,  which  lies 
amidst  the  ruins  of  the  Temple  of  Jupiter  Olympus. 
Count  Zarano  seated  himself  on  the  giant's  chest;  he 
offered  his  hand  to  Christine  to  help  her  to  mount. 

"I  think  we  deserve  a  long  rest  and  a  cigarette,"  he 
said.  "Do  you  realise  how  far  you  have  walked,  Miss 
Lovat?" 

"No,  I  have  no  idea.  On  such  a  night  I  could  walk  on 
for  ever;  I'm  not  a  bit  tired." 

He  helped  her  to  seat  herself  comfortably  on  the  breast 
of  the  Telamon.  After  a  moment's  silence  he  offered  her 
a  cigarette. 

"No,  thanks,"  she  said,  "Auntie  objects." 

Night  sounds  and  night  scents  came  fitfully  to  them. 
Christine  knew  that  speech  would  be  less  intimate  than  the 


70  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

silence  which  surrounded  them;  it  was  a  new  sensation  to 
her,  this  sense-stirring  power  of  a  Sicilian  night.  She 
tried  to  speak  lightly  as  she  began  her  camouflage  of 
words. 

"Was  this  great  monster  we  are  sitting  on  some  local 
hero?"  She  tapped  her  heels  against  the  stone.  "What 
a  size  he  is !  About  twenty  feet  ?" 

"His  original  duty  was  to  support  the  entablature  of  the 
temple.  A  Telamon  is  a  male  caryatid.  You  have  seen 
the  famous  Greek  Caryatides  of  Athens,  haven't  you? — in 
the  British  Museum." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  I  have — I  used  to  be  taken  to  the 
Museum  by  my  governess." 

"Well,  this  fallen  giant  once  supported  what  is  called  the 
entablature  of  the  temple — that  is  to  say,  the  front  high 
part  of  the  fagade,  the  piece  which  projects  over  the 
portico." 

Christine  smilingly  thanked  him.  It  was  nice  of  him  to 
tell  her  these  things  in  a  simple  way  and  not  as  if  he 
thought  her  horribly  ignorant  for  not  knowing  them. 

He  told  her  many  things,  for  he  also  knew  that  wisdom 
lay  in  talking.  The  girl  was  adorable,  but  he  must  wait. 
He  had  played  the  same  game  before ;  patience  was  always 
rewarded.  To  the  girl  at  his  side  his  manner  was  so  imper- 
sonal that  there  was  no  need  for  her  to  be  distant ;  neither 
by  one  word  nor  by  the  slightest  act  had  he  done  anything 
to  betray  the  trust  her  aunt  had  put  in  him. 

To  keep  his  tongue  from  mischief — for  the  girl  was 
lovely  in  the  moonlight — he  told  her  pretty  anecdotes 
about  the  poor  of  Girgenti  and  picturesque  stories  from 
Sicilian  literature.  He  reminded  her  that  it  was  the  Eng- 
lish poet  Gabriel  Rossetti  who  had  translated  into  English 
the  love-songs  of  Enzio,  Frederick  of  Hohenstaufen's  beau- 
tiful son.  He  it  was  who  first  wove  the  love-songs  of 
Sicily  in  Italian. 

Whilst  the  girl  listened  she  marvelled  at  the  man's  VCF- 
satility;  his  knowledge  of  her  own  country  went  much 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  71 

deeper  than  her  own.  The  man,  on  his  part,  wondered 
why  her  former  reserve  and  obvious  distrust  of  himself  had 
suddenly  broken  down.  He  could  not  account  for  it.  She 
was  no  coy  coquette  playing  a  different  game  behind  her 
aunt's  back;  there  must  be  some  other  reason  for  it. 
Wisely,  he  kept  his  own  counsel  and  still  more  wisely,  as 
the  girl's  defences  broke  down  and  she  youthfully  gave 
herself  over  to  the  pleasure  and  romance  of  the  hour  and 
the  surroundings,  he  drew  back  a  little.  He  made  a  deter- 
mined effort  not  to  become  personal,  to  be  while  they  were 
alone  together  less  intimate  with  her  than  if  she  had  been 
accompanied  by  her  aunt.  He  gauged  rightly  that  Chris- 
tine was  the  type  who  liked  to  be  a  sympathetic  and  charm- 
ing companion,  but  as  yet  would  fear,  because  she  did 
not  understand,  any  token  of  passion  in  the  male  whom 
she  was  unconsciously  attracting. 

After  resting  on  the  fallen  giant  as  long  as  anything 
like  wisdom  would  permit,  they  wandered  on  towards  the 
Temple  of  Aesculapius,  because  Christine  had  asked  him 
to  show  her  the  site  of  his  present  work.  It  was  getting 
late,  so  they  had  to  walk  quickly,  as  quickly  as  it  was  pos- 
sible over  such  difficult  ground.  Near  the  farm  a  small 
flock  of  sheep  were  evidently  gathered  together  for  the 
night.  The  Count's  quick  ear  caught  the  sound  of  a 
dog's  angry  bark;  he  clutched  Christine's  arm  and  hur- 
riedly turned  her  round. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  said.  His  grasp  left  her  in 
no  doubt ;  he  was  alarmed. 

"Hush!"  he  said.  "Hush!  The  dogs  have  scented 
us ;  they  may  come.  If  they  do,  don't  be  alarmed — I  have 
my  revolver." 

"But  I'm  not  afraid  of  dogs."  Christine  laughed 
softly. 

"Hush!"  he  said  again,  as  his  hand  tightened  on  her 
arm  and  he  hurried  her  on.  Unfortunately  they  both 
stumbled  over  something,  and  when  they  recovered  their 
footing  they  found  themselves  almost  on  the  top  of  some 


72  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

sleeping  sheep,  which  were  also  guarded  by  a  dog,  a  wolf 
dog  of  Etna.  With  a  low  growl  and  menacing  teeth  it 
left  the  sheep  and  sprang  towards  the  intruders.  The 
Count  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  nipped  out  his  re- 
volver. Christine,  who  had  never  felt  the  slightest  fear 
of  any  sort  of  dog,  hoped  that  he  would  not  shoot  it.  The 
dog  was  only  doing  its  duty,  and  probably  the  old  saying 
held  good — -dogs  that  bark  don't  bite. 

As  he  held  the  revolver  in  his  hand,  the  dog  crept  closer 
to  him,  growling  and  showing  its  teeth.  There  was  no 
doubt  about  it;  it  meant  to  spring  at  either  one  or  other 
of  them  whenever  it  was  near  enough  and  got  the  chance. 

Christine  was  at  last  terrified.  The  animal  looked  like  a 
hungry  wolf.  A  shot  rang  through  the  air.  She  shut  her 
eyes.  Was  the  dog  dead?  Was  there  no  longer  any  dan- 
ger to  be  feared  from  its  awful  eyes  and  threatening 
teeth?  The  Count  loosened  his  hold  on  her  arm.  He  had 
fired  high  to  frighten  the  animal,  which  was  skulking  away 
with  its  tail  between  its  legs,  back  to  the  flock  which  had 
been  left  under  its  protection. 

"We  must  lose  no  time,"  he  said  urgently.  "Walk  as 
fast  as  you  can." 

Surely  there  was  now  every  opportunity  for  holding  on 
to  the  girl's  arm  to  help  her  over  the  rugged  way?  But 
the  Count  did  not  grasp  his  opportunity.  He  made  Chris- 
tine walk  ahead  of  him,  while  he  kept  a  vigilant  look-out. 
The  dog  might  be  following  them,  behind  the  huge  stones 
and  rocks  which  covered  their  path ;  it  might  attack  them 
at  any  moment. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  until  they  reached  an  exit  of 
the  grounds  which  surround  the  temples.  When  they  were 
far  from  any  feeding-grounds  and  all  danger  had  passed, 
the  Count  said  to  her: 

"I  must  indeed  beg  your  forgiveness,  Miss  Lovat,  though 
I  cannot  forgive  myself  for  the  fright  I  have  given  you 
and  the  danger  to  which  I  have  exposed  you.  And  how 
splendidly  you  behaved!" 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  73 

"If  it  had  not  been  for  your  revolver,  where  should  we 
have  been,  what  would  have  happened  to  me?  It  is  I  who 
have  to  thank  you.  I  am  awfully  grateful." 

"These  night  dogs  are  just  wolves,"  he  said.  "They 
are  terrible.  But  fortunately  a  revolver  shot  scares  them; 
one  need  not  kill  them." 

"I  could  not  help  smiling  when  you  said  'don't  be 
alarmed.'  The  dogs  one  sees  in  the  daytime  are  such  poor, 
miserable  things." 

"When  you  saw  that  brute,  you  understood?" 

"Rather!  Wasn't  it  awful?  I  felt  certain  it  would 
spring  at  you."  She  shivered  and  instinctively  drew 
closer  to  him. 

"They  are  trained  to  guard  the  flocks  and  farm-build- 
ings by  night.  I  ought  to  have  remembered;  I  was  to 
blame.  But  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  did  not  know  that  there 
were  any  sheep  on  this  land.  Not  many  small  farmers 
in  the  district  can  afford  to  keep  so  precarious  a  stock  as 
sheep.  Still,  I  ought  not  to  have  allowed  you  to  run  such 
a  risk.  You  were  splendid,  ever  so  plucky." 

"Oh,  but  I  wanted  to  go — I  should  probably  have  gone 
by  myself." 

"Never  go  so  far  from  the  city  alone,"  he  said  quickly, 
"promise  you  won't !  It  really  is  not  wise." 

"Because  of  brigands,  do  you  mean?" 

"Not  exactly  brigands,  the  honest  brigands" — he 
laughed  at  the  expression — "the  self-respecting  brigands, 
I  mean.  The  genuine  article  never  attacks  ladies  or 
strangers ;  it  is  the  landowners  and  mine-owners  of  Italy 
and  the  wage-payers  for  whom  they  lie  in  wait.  But  the 
country  at  the  present  moment  is  frightfully  poor,  and 
there  are  such  things  as  footpads — even  in  your  garden 
of  England." 

"I  once  got  a  horrible  fright  in  New  Romney.  Kent  is 
hateful  in  the  hop-picking  season." 

"Well,  here  poverty  is  so  great  that  your  poorest  paid 
labourer  in  Wiltshire  is  a  lord  in  comparison  to  the  well- 


74  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

paid  skilled  labourer  in  Sicily.  So  it  is  not  wise  for  a 
wealthy  lady — to  all  poor  Sicilians  English  ladies  and 
American  ladies  are  wealthy — to  wander  about  some  parts 
of  the  country  unprotected." 

"Tell  me  why  they  are  so  poor.  Are  there  no  industries 
in  the  Island,  nothing  but  sulphur  mines?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "No,  Miss  Lovat,  under  this 
Sicilian  moon  I  am  not  going  to  pour  into  your  ears 
Sicily's  tale  of  woe;  I  am  not  going  to  spoil  the  romanc? 
and  mystery  of  the  night.  I  would  rather  tell  you  of  hei 
gods  and  goddesses,  of  the  wealth  and  splendour  of  Gir^ 
genti  in  the  days  when  it  carried  on  its  trade  with  Carth- 
age. In  spite  of  its  sordid  appearance,  Girgenti  is  still 
for  the  South  wealthy  and  prosperous.  Sulphur  has  taken 
the  place  of  corn  and  wine  and  oil,  and  it  is  all  shipped 
from  Porto  Empedocle." 

"Is  there  anything  to  see  at  Porto  Empedocle?" 

"No,  nothing."  At  the  moment  the  Count  probably  did 
not  even  remember  his  visit  to  the  Port  only  a  few  days 
before.  In  his  present  pursuit  of  pleasure  the  tricking  of 
Zita  and  her  flght  were  forgotten. 

He  knew  that  no  man  need  hope  to  win  Christine  Lovat 
who  did  not  contemplate  marrying  her.  He  had  trusted  to 
Zita's  Southern  temperament,  as  well  as  to  her  fear  of  his 
displeasure. 

When  they  reached  the  garden  of  the  hotel  the  scent  of 
friesias  and  orange-blossom  welcomed  them.  Christine 
had  no  desire  to  go  to  bed;  it  seemed  wicked  to  her  in  her 
present  mood  to  waste  the  glory  of  the  stars  and  the  moon 
under  the  blankets. 

As  they  stood  together  at  the  front  door  she  said,  "Per* 
haps  Auntie  would  like  to  come  out — the  garden  is  so  cool 
and  sweet-scented." 

Her  aunt  had  not  gone  to  bed,  but  she  preferred  sitting 
in  the  music-room  with  the  window  wide  open.  Would 
Count  Zarano  play  to  her  for  half-an-hour? 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  75 

Of  course  he  would.  He  was  always  polite  and  tactful, 
and  never  failed  to  do  the  correct  thing  in  the  most  win- 
ning manner.  To  do  a  good  deed  ungraciously  is  wasted 
virtue. 

"I  will  sit  on  the  balcony  outside  the  music-room," 
Christine  said.  "While  I  listen  I  can  see  the  moon." 

As  he  carried  her  lounge  chair  closer  to  the  window,  he 
said,  "What  shall  I  play  to  you  and  to  the  moon?" 

"The  Moonlight  Sonata — yes,  play  it  to  the  moon." 
Her  eyes  thanked  him. 

"The  Moonlight  Sonata,  that  is  your  choice.  I  think  I 
can  play  it  to-night." 

WThile  Christine  listened  outside  the  window,  her  aunt 
sat  beside  the  Count,  close  to  the  piano. 

He  played  the  sonata  as  only  an  artist  can  play  it,  and 
he  was  playing  it  for  Christine  alone,  while  his  mobile  face 
smiled  and  responded  to  Mrs.  Bullock's  admiring  attitude. 
His  good  looks  increased  with  intimacy,  and  he  could 
when  the  opportunity  demanded  the  effort  be  as  simple 
and  easily  pleased  as  an  unspoilt  boy. 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  the  bread  of  kindness  which 
he  had  cast  upon  the  waters  was  returned  to  him  fourfold. 
His  act  of  unstudied  kindness  and  pity  for  a  suffering  kid 
had  changed  Christine's  distrust  of  him  into  admiration. 
Nothing  which  he  could  have  done  could  have  more  com- 
pletely proved  to  her  how  badly  she  had  judged  his  char- 
acter. 

While  he  played  to  her  she  lay  looking  up  at  a  southern 
sky.  The  scent  of  Sicily's  night  flowers  was  subtly 
wafted  to  her,  while  the  occasional  screech  of  a  far  off  owl 
brought  to  her  senses  the  wildness  of  the  outer  Eden. 
Roses,  white  stocks  and  friesias  were  near  at  hand;  in 
the  distance  there  were  wild  hills,  and  beyond  the  Greek 
temples  the  African  Sea. 

She  clasped  her  hands  in  a  silent  ecstacy.  The  night 
was  bewildering ;  the  Count's  music  was  exquisite ;  she  was 
young  and  Sicily  was  persistently  calling  to  her. 


76  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

The  Count  was  in  love  with  Christine  as  he  had  been  in 
love  with  many  women  in  his  life.  While  he  was  in  love  he 
was  capable  of  great  things.  While  she  was  still  to  be 
won,  he  could  not  imagine  himself  doing  a  selfish  or  igno- 
ble deed  to  such  a  woman,  a  girl-woman — or  rather,  a  boy- 
girl,  whose  clear  eyes  reflected  the  unsoiled  mind  of  a  child. 
If  she  was  not  as  innocent  as  a  child  it  was  because,  prob- 
ably, she  had  been  instructed  in  certain  facts  of  life.  Her 
own  thoughts  and  instincts  were  as  clear  as  the  waters 
which  bubbled  over  the  stones  and  wound  their  gurgling 
way  through  the  wooded  glens  and  mountain  passes  of 
her  own  country. 

When  they  said  good-night  the  Count  kissed  her  aunt's 
hand.  As  he  did  so  a  thrill  ran  through  Christine's  senses. 
By  some  telepathic  means  he  made  her  feel  that  the  kiss  was 
hers ;  she  felt  the  softness  of  his  lips  upon  her  hand. 

A  blush  dyed  her  face,  for  she  was  conscious  of  his  in- 
stinctive understanding.  She  had  accepted  his  caress. 
In  the  future,  if  she  should  have  to  reject  any  attempt 
of  his  to  make  love  to  her,  he  would  always  know  that  on 
this  night  at  least  his  lips  had  pleased  her. 

Her  confusion  amused  him  and  kindled  his  passion.  He 
read  her  thoughts  as  clearly  as  he  had  read  them  all  the 
evening;  he  knew  that  he  had  stirred  new  feelings  in  the 
undeveloped  girl  and  that  they  were  bewildering  her. 

And  certainly  they  were  new  feelings  to  Christine.  For 
the  first  time  in  her  life  her  thoughts  enfolded  her  in  a 
lover's  arms,  a  new  loneliness  awoke  in  her  and  distressed 
her.  Was  it  really  she  herself,  the  Christine  whom  she 
thought  she  knew  so  well,  that  had  longed  to  be  kissed  by  a 
man  with  whom  she  was  not  in  love,  or  certainly  not  con- 
sciously in  love?  Yet  just  as  he  had  been  tender  to  the 
suffering  kid  she  would  like  him  to  be  tender  to  her  now. 
She  found  herself  alone  in  a  strange  world. 

Zita  of  course  could  have  explained  everything  to  her, 
for  Zita  was  born  with  sex  instincts.  Zita  knew  that  youth 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  7Tf 

cannot  trifle  with  Sicily's  moonlight  nights.  In  Sicily 
youth  must  walk  discreetly,  for  the  gods  who  are  in  hiding 
have  not  lost  their  cunning.  Lovers  may  dance,  but  Pan 
still  pipes  the  tune;  they  must  tread  his  measure.  If 
mortals  will  usurp  immortal  ground  they  must  pay  their 
toll.  Nemesis  is  ever  busy. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  next  day  at  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  Chris- 
tine knocked  at  the  door  of  the  Casa  Salvatore.  A  girl's, 
not  a  man's,  voice  called  out,  "Prego  entrare." 

Christine  entered  blithely.  Zita,  who  was  patching  the 
pockets  of  her  brother's  sun-faded  working  coat,  gave  her 
visitor  a  smiling  welcome. 

Zita's  beauty  so  surprised  Christine  that  she  forgot  the 
very  neat  sentence  of  Italian  which  she  had  prepared. 
"Buon  giorno,"  was  all  she  managed  to  say;  while  Zita's 
great  eyes  looked  at  her,  half  in  pity  and  half  in  wonder, 
for  La  Primavera  had  been  seen  very  frequently  in  the 
society  of  Count  Zarano.  Zita  had  seen  her  with  him  her- 
self, and  she  had  been  told  the  fact  very  often  by  other 
people,  people  whom  it  would  be  impossible  to  imagine 
could  be  interested  in  the  stranger's  affairs.  The  Count 
and  "la  bella  Bionda,"  as  the  English  Signorina  was  called 
by  the  local  inhabitants,  on  account  of  her  golden  hair, 
were  constantly  together.  In  Sicily  everything  that  is 
human  is  interesting  to  humanity;  nothing  is  unobserved, 
nothing  is  unimportant. 

Zita  had  so  far  seen  Christine  Lovat  only  from  a  dis- 
tance. Now  that  the  very  breath  of  spring  was  standing 
smiling  at  her,  she  knew  why  Salvatore  spoke  of  her  as  La 
Primavera.  But,  quick  to  mend  her  manners,  she  offered 
her  visitor  a  chair. 

Christine  sat  down,  and  when  she  had  got  over  her  sur- 


78  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

prise  she  said  in  perfect  Italian,  "I  have  come  for  the 
little  terracotta  box  which  your  brother  was  mending  for 
me.  It  was  to  be  ready  to-day." 

"Si,  si,  Signorina."  Zita  jumped  up  on  a  chair.  The 
repaired  articles  were  always  kept,  while  they  were  drying, 
in  a  wall-cupboard,  which  was  too  high  up  for  Zita  to 
reach  without  aid. 

Christine  watched  the  girl  poised  on  the  chair.  Here 
was  the  living  thing  which  she  had  wanted  to  buy  in  terra- 
cotta, the  most  perfect  woman  Christine  had  ever  seen. 

Zita  looked  into  the  cupboard.  The  jewel-case  was  there 
right  enough,  quite  ready  and  waiting  for  Christine.  She 
was  just  going  to  lift  it  up  when  a  thought  came  to  her. 
If  she  were  to  say  that  it  was  not  there,  that  Salvatore 
must  have  put  it  somewhere  else,  the  Signorina  would  have 
to  come  again  and  Salvatore  would  see  her. 

With  her  head  thrown  back  over  her  shoulder,  she  said, 
"I  am  so  sorry,  Signorina,  it  is  not  here.  (May  the 
Blessed  Virgin  forgive  my  lie!)  My  brother  must  have 
put  in  somewhere  safe.  Can  you  call  again  at  half-past 
six — he  will  be  at  home  then — or  to-morrow  night?  I 
am  indeed  sorry." 

Christine  looked  at  her  wrist-watch;  it  was  now  nearly 
five  o'clock.  "When  I've  had  a  little  talk  with  you  I  will 
go  and  eat  some  cakes  in  the  cake-shop  and  return  at  six 
o'clock." 

Zita  knew  no  English,  but  she  was  quick  and  well-accus- 
tomed to  the  Italian  of  English  and  other  f  orestieri,  so  she 
helped  Christine  to  express  herself,  and  succeeded  very 
well.  She  understood  almost  everything  she  said  in 
Italian. 

"Please  to  stay  as  long  as  you  like,  Signorina.  It  will 
give  me  great  pleasure  if  you  will  remain  with  me  here 
until  my  brother  returns  from  his  work."  Zita  spoke  very 
slowly  and  carefully. 

"I  will  stay  for  a  few  minutes,"  Christine  said,  "and 
enjoy  a  rest,  as  I  am  a  little  tired." 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  79 

"Have  you  walked  all  the  way  from  the  hotel,  Sig- 
norina  ?" 

Christine  nodded.     "It  is  not  so  far." 

"You  are  strong,  Signorina."  Zita  smiled.  "And  you 
look  like  a  delicate  flower  which  passes  with  the  spring,  so 
very  quickly." 

Christine  laughed;  she  understood.  The  girl's  words 
were  simply  chosen.  "I  am  very  strong,"  she  said.  "I 
enjoy  walking." 

"Sicilian  ladies  do  not  walk,  Signorina.  In  Girgenti 
they  only  walk  a  little  way  along  the  street,  to  the  Villa 
Garibaldi,  just  enough  to  get  a  sniff  of  fresh  air,"  Zita 
smiled,  "and  to  show  their  clothes." 

"But  you  walk?" 

"Gia,  gia,  I  am  strong — I  walk  far  every  day." 

"Where  do  you  walk  to?" 

"To  my  brother's  work.  He  is  digging  near  the  temple 
of  Aesculapius."  In  Zita's  answers  there  were  many  ex- 
pressions of  respect  which  are  quite  untranslatable. 

"Oh,  I  know,"  Christine  said.  "I  went  there  by  moon- 
light." 

"Si,  si,  Signorina,"  Zita  nodded. 

"You  know?     You  have  heard  that  I  was  there?" 

"Si,  si,  with  the  Signore ;  he  conducted  you.  There  was 
a  night-dog." 

Christine  smiled.  "I  thought  no-one  saw  us.  The 
night-dog  was  horrible." 

"In  Sicily  everything  has  eyes,  Signorina,  nothing  is 
unseen." 

"But  who  told  you?"  Christine  did  not  care  in  the 
least,  but  it  amused  her,  this  local  interest  in  other  people's 
concerns. 

"My  brother  Salvatore;  where  he  heard  it  I  do  not 
know."  Zita  smiled  sympathetically.  "Prego,  mi  dis- 
piace." 

"Your  brother  must  have  seen  us,  I  suppose.  No-one 
else  could  have  told  him,  no-one  knows  us — me." 


80  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

"Prego,  Signorina,  in  Girgenti  everyone  knows  every- 
body and  their  business.  If  I  go  across  the  street  to  post  a 
letter,  no-one  is  looking,  I  can  see  no  eyes ;  yet  Salvatorc 
will  be  told  by  more  than  one  friend  that  I  went  to  the 
post.  Someone  will  say,  'Your  sister  is  looking  remark- 
ably well — I  saw  her  this  afternoon  at  the  post,'  or  they 
will  say,  'Artichokes  are  dear  just  now — I  saw  your  sister 
buying  some  to-day.'  Salvatore  then  knows  that  I  must 
have  left  the  house.  Salvatore  is  good,  he  does  not 
trouble;  but  if  he  were  my  husband  there  might  be 
trouble." 

Christine  laughed.  "But  may  you  not  leave  the  house 
when  he  is  at  work?" 

"I  have  no  mother,  Signorina." 

"You  cannot  go  out  as  I  do?" 

"If  a  neighbour  cannot  take  me  with  her,  I  must  wait 
for  my  brother.  I  prefer  to  wait,  Signorina." 

"But  to-day  you  are  not  with  him  and  it  is  so  fine?" 

"No,  not  to-day,  Signorina."  Zita  felt  guilty;  she 
knew  why  she  had  not  left  the  house.  For  many  days 
now  she  had  not  left  it.  Since  the  urns  were  buried  in  it 
she  had  stayed  at  home  to  guard  their  stolen  treasures; 
Casa  Salvatore  had  become  a  cemetery.  The  girl  had 
grown  to  dread  the  long  hours  spent  in  it  alone.  Each 
day  when  she  had  asked  her  brother  if  she  might  join 
him  at  his  work  he  had  made  a  different  excuse. 

"Your  brother  enjoys  his  work,  he  is  an  artist?" 

"Si,  si,  Signorina."  Admiration  shone  in  Zita's  eyes. 
"He  is  a  true  artist  and  a  good  brother." 

"I  think  he  has  a  good  sister."  Christine  had  her 
fingers  on  the  patch  which  Zita  was  puting  on  the  large 
pocket  of  Salvatore's  coat.  "You  are  a  dear,"  she  said, 
"but  don't  you  want  to  go  out  and  enjoy  the  evening  air? 
Come,"  she  said,  "come  with  me  and  have  some  cakes  and 
chocolate  at  the  pasticceria.  I  will  wait  for  your  brother. 
Come  along,  please  do — I  can't  go  alone." 

"Ma,  Signorina."     Zita  shook  her  head. 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  81 

"Why  ma?  I  will  take  no  buts."  Christine  laughed 
at  the  girl's  astonished  protests.  "Please  come,  she  said. 
"I  want  a  companion,  and  you  can  ask  for  the  things  more 
correctly  than  I  can.  I  want  some  strawberry  tarts;  we 
do  not  get  them  in  the  hotel,  and  I  saw  them  in  the  shops." 
Zita  still  hesitated.  The  idea  was  astounding. 

"We  still  have  three-quarters  of  an  hour  before  your 
brother  returns.  Don't  you  like  chocolate  and  strawberry 
tarts?" 

"But  my  house!"  Zita  blushed.  "Mi  scusa,  Signo- 
rina." 

"No,  I  won't  excuse  you.  No-one  will  run  away  with 
the  house."  Christine  looked  round.  "Will  someone  steal 
your  table  and  chairs?" 

"No,  no."  Zita's  heart  was  heavy  with  guilt,  but  the 
Signorina  was  charming,  so  charming  that  she  felt  as  if 
she  would  like  to  do  anything  in  the  world  to  please  her. 
Her  untroubled  eyes  were  as  blue  and  white  as  the  old  jug 
which  held  their  table  wine;  they  smiled  sympathetically 
at  Zita ;  while  the  pink  in  her  cheeks  and  the  brightness  of 
her  hair  reminded  Zita  of  the  angels  in  old  church  pictures. 

She  was  ready  to  go  with  Christine,  but  to  make  herself 
a  little  more  suitable  to  accompany  the  English  Signorina, 
she  took  her  black  cashmere  shawl,  bordered  with  a  silk 
fringe,  from  its  box  and  put  it  round  her  slim  shoulders. 
It  fell  almost  to  the  ground  in  long  straight  folds. 

Christine  was  delighted.  She  remembered  what  the 
Count  had  said  about  Salvatore  Mazzini's  sister.  He  had 
said  that  Salvatore  was  Greek,  but  that  his  sister  was  still 
more  Greek,  that  she  was  a  rebirth  of  Greek  Sicily.  In 
her  shawl  she  was  exactly  like  a  Tanagra  figurine. 

The  two  beautiful  girls  stepped  out  into  the  sunlit 
street.  Zita  locked  her  house-door  and  put  the  big  key  in 
her  underskirt  pocket.  Christine  looked  athletic  and  north- 
ern-bred. She  was  as  usual  dressed  in  pure  white;  a 
panama  hat  almost  covered  the  glory  of  her  hair,  and  yet 
it  suited  her.  A  hat  would  have  been  a  desecration  on  a 


82  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

head  like  Zita's.  They  made  a  striking  contrast  to 
each  other,  but  both  girls  were  completely  indifferent  at  the 
moment  of  their  appearance. 

Count  Zarano,  who  was  following  them  cautiously,  was 
subtly  contrasting  their  merits.  That  Zita  was  the  more 
beautiful  he  had  to  admit,  for  she  was  well-nigh  perfect; 
but  to  eyes  long  accustomed  to  Sicily,  Christine  had  quali- 
ties which  were  newer  and  more  exciting.  There  was  about 
her  the  charm  of  a  strange  woman.  Her  possibilities  were 
a  matter  of  speculation,  an  unknown  quantity.  He  knew 
Zita's  nature — or  thought  he  did — and  he  could  tell  pretty 
accurately  what  her  passions  would  make  of  her  eventually. 
She  was,  he  felt  sure,  not  to  be  judged  by  the  conventions 
which  controlled  her  conduct;  she  was  temperamentally  a 
daughter  of  the  South. 

Zita's  eyes  were  like  two  dark  lakes ;  Christine's  were  cool, 
clear  streams  whose  waters  stirred  no  mud.  It  would  be 
his  pleasure  to  see  knowledge  from  the  tree  of  good  and 
evil  come  into  those  innocent  eyes,  to  watch  the  effect  which 
life  lived  fully  and  completely  would  have  on  a  woman  of 
her  type.  At  present  compared  to  Zita  she  was  almost 
sesless. 

He  had  loved  madly  many  southern  women;  he  had 
tasted  of  almost  every  forbidden  fruit  and  found  it  sweet. 
But  this  boy-girl,  whose  very  presence  was  as  cooling  and 
invigorating  as  Highland  air,  whipped  his  appetite  for 
further  adventures.  Nothing  daunted  him.  If  to  win 
her  he  had  to  marry  her,  he  would  do  it;  she  was  the 
woman  he  desired  at  the  moment,  and  to  his  nature  that 
was  all  that  mattered.  His  old  desire  for  Zita  was  swept 
aside  by  the  ardour  of  his  passion  for  Christine.  Zita 
had  tricked  and  fooled  him;  she  had  yet  to  be  reckoned 
with.  Her  surrender  was  only  a  matter  of  time. 

He  hurried  after  them.  Before  they  had  reached  the 
cake-shop  which  lies  at  the  end  of  the  Rupe  Atenea,  he 
had  bowed  to  Christine  as  he  crossed  the  road  to  join 
them. 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  83 

"Good  evening,  Miss  Lovat,"  he  said  when  he  reached 
her  side. 

Zita  he  scarcely  noticed,  so  she  walked  on  ahead.  He 
had  not  seen  her  since  the  eventful  afternoon  at  Porto 
Empedocle.  He  spoke  to  Christine  in  English,  which  of 
course  Zita  could  not  understand;  but  her  quick  wit  told 
her  that  the  Signore  was  inviting  her  to  go  somewhere 
with  him  and  she  was  refusing.  She  distinctly  heard  her 
say,  "No,  thank  you,  not  this  evening." 

A  fire  of  intense  hatred  for  the  Signore  leaped  up  in  Zita. 
She  had  not  actually  hated  him  before;  she  had  blamed 
herself  for  her  stupidity.  Now  every  vein  in  her  body  was 
burning  with  hatred.  He  was  paying  the  deepest  respect 
to  the  English  girl,  who  was  rich  and  a  great  lady,  while 
herself  he  almost  ignored.  He  might  never  have  seen  her 
before;  he  had  dismissed  her  with  the  greeting  he  might 
have  given  to  any  servant  who  was  in  attendance  on  her 
mistress.  Yet  he  had  dared  to  say  that  he  loved  her !  She 
knew  perfectly  well  that  his  desire  now  was  for  the  tall 
English  girl,  and  that  he  did  not  wish  them  to  be  together. 
Zita  could  hate — it  was  one  of  her  inheritances  from  an 
ancient  and  revengeful  race.  But  she  could  love,  too,  and 
she  wanted  to  save  Christine  from  the  man  who  had  so 
shamed  her,  she  wanted  to  warn  her  of  the  manner  of  man 
he  was.  But  how  could  she?  The  Signore  was  now 
talking  to  Christine  in  the  way  she  knew  he  could  talk,  he 
was  carrying  her  thoughts  with  his,  inspiring  her  with  his 
interests,  making  things  appear  interesting  which  had  only 
been  ordinary  before. 

He  wished  to  make  a  third  in  the  cake-shop  and  be 
allowed  to  order  the  chocolate  and  the  strawberry  tarts,  but 
Christine  was  dismissing  him.  She  did  it  because  she  saw 
that  if  he  made  one  of  the  party  Zita  would  be  left  out. 
All  the  Italian  which  Christine  knew  would  go  to  pieces 
and  they  would  have  to  speak  English;  she  could  not  yet 
join  in  a  mixed  conversation. 

To  Christine  there  was  something  almost  tragic  about 


84  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

the  black-shawled  figure  and  the  great  eyes  which  had 
become  so  gravely  mysterious  since  the  Count  had  ap- 
peared. The  girl's  simple  outing  must  not  be  spoilt. 

"Andiamo,"  Christine  said  gaily  to  Zita.  "Addio, 
Count  Zarano.  We  may  meet  to-night." 

He  had  followed  Christine  for  some  distance,  and 
was  not  pleased,  but  he  was  too  wise  to  show  his  annoy- 
ance. 

"There!  I'm  gl*d  he  has  gone,"  Christine  said  with  a 
relieved  sigh.  "I  want  my  chocolate.  I  will  order  it  if 
you  will  listen  and  tell  me  afterwards  what  I  said  wrong." 

All  conversations  between  Christine  and  Zita  were  of 
course  rather  slow,  but  they  were  getting  on  splendidly. 
It  is  astonishing  how  much  can  be  said  by  signs  and 
glances.  They  seated  themselves  at  a  small  marble-topped 
table,  and  very  soon  a  tall  and  ferociously-moustached 
waiter  appeared.  Christine  gave  her  order. 

When  the  waiter  had  gone,  Zita  smiled  happily  at 
Christine.  "You  speak  Italian  like  a  professor,  Signorina, 
and  very  beautifully." 

Christine  was  pleased.  She  had  taken  great  pains  to 
learn  her  Italian  before  she  left  London ;  she  spoke  it  very 
much  more  correctly  and  more  politely  than  the  average 
tourist,  but  with  great  hesitation  and  difficulty. 

"I  know  so  little,  Signorina  Mazzini,  and  when  I  say 
something  correctly  I  am  always  answered  so  quickly  and 
so  volubly  that  I  cannot  follow ;  I  get  lost,  and  depressed." 

"Pregno,  Signorina,  that  is  because  you  speak  so  cor- 
rectly; people  think  you  know  more  than  you  do.  You 
ordered  the  chocolate  and  cakes  with  strawberries  quite 
correctly,  just  as  if  you  could  speak  the  language." 

"Oh,  but  that  was  easy — cakes  and  chocolate!"  she 
laughed. 

"Ma,  you  said  it  grammatically.  If  you  had  pointed  out 
the  cakes  and  then,  said  'chocolate'  to  the  waiter  he  would 
have  understood;  but  your  plurals  were  correct,  Signo- 
rina." 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  85 

• 

"All  Sicilians  and  Italians  like  to  say  pretty  things ;  they 
like  to  make  themselves  agreeable." 

"No,  no,  I  do  not  like  flattery.  I  never  flatter,  Sig- 
norina."  There  was  meaning  in  her  voice.  "I  leave  that 
to  .  .  ."  She  stopped.  "Mi  scusa,  Signorina,  but  I 
like  people  to  be  sincere." 

"To  whom  do  you  leave  flattery,  who  is  insincere?" 

"Prego,  mi  scusa,  Signorina."  Zita's  confusion  amused 
Christine. 

"Is  it  Count  Zarano?  Do  you  mean  that  he  is  insin- 
cere?" She  had  felt  rather  than  seen  the  girl's  attitude 
towards  the  Count ;  it  reminded  her  of  her  first  impression 
of  the  man. 

"The  Signore  has  no  need  to  flatter  the  illustrious 
Signorina ;  what  he  tells  her  will  be  true." 

Christine  shook  her  head.     "Who  is  the  flatterer  now?" 

"I  do  not  flatter,  Signorina.  My  brother  called  you 
'La  Primavera' — do  you  know  what  that  means?" 

Christine  blushed.  "Yes,  Spring.  He  called  me 
Spring?" 

"Gia,  gia.  He  told  me  that  you  had  come  to  our  poor 
house  like  Spring  when  it  suddenly  comes  after  a  flower- 
less  winter.  He  called  you  'La  Primavera.'  Mi  scusa, 
Signorina,  but  he  spoke  the  truth,  you  are  La  Prima- 
vera." The  girl's  eyes  were  beautifully  sincere. 

"It  was  very  pretty  of  him,  Signorina  Mazzini." 

"Prego,  Signorina,  my  name  is  Zita." 

"Then  tell  me,  Signorina  Zita,  why  do  you  dislike 
Count  Zarano?" 

"Ma,  Signorina,  I  did  not  say  that.  He  is  my  brother's 
employer." 

"Your  lips  did  not  say  it,  Signorina  Zita."  Christine 
touched  her  own  eyes.  "It  is  not  the  lips  which  tell  im- 
portant things;  I  think  I  am  learning  some  things  about 
Sicily." 

"The  Signore  is  my  brother's  patron,  Signorina;  it  is 
not  well  for  me  to  say  that  I  dislike  him." 


86  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

"I  understand.  All  the  same,  you  do  dislike  him,  Zita. 
We  don't  only  hate  with  our  lips  and  we  can't  help  our 
likes  and  dislikes." 

"He  is  very  clever,  Signorina ;  my  brother  likes  him." 

"But  you  do  not  share  your  brother's  feelings?" 

"Prego,  mi  scusa,  Signorina.  What  I  think  is  of  no 
importance." 

Christine  helped  herself  to  another  strawberry  tart. 

"How  delicious  they  are!"  she  said.  "Do  you  like  wild 
strawberries,  Signorina  Zita?  I  adore  them." 

"I  like  them  very  much  and  you  are  very  kind,  Sigor- 
ina.  This  is  a  day  for  me  to  remember  when  life  is  sad." 

"I  am  not  kind  at  all,"  Christine  said.  "I  couldn't  sit 
here  all  alone."  Her  eyes  looked  round  the  room.  "Are 
all  these  people  from  the  country?"  she  asked.  "They 
look  quite  different  from  the  people  of  Girgenti,  so  much 
happier." 

As  Zita  looked  at  the  groups  of  people  who  were  dis- 
cussing with  zest  fruit-syrups  and  custard-cakes,  Christine 
saw  her  eyes  drop  suddenly  and  a  charming  expression  of 
modesty  overwhelm  her.  A  good-looking  youth  who  was 
seated  with  a  buxom  woman  had  at  last  managed  to  catch 
Zita's  eye.  He  was  looking  at  her  now  as  only  a  Sicilian 
can  look  at  his  "adorata."  Zita's  eyes  became  fixed  on  her 
plate. 

Christine  wondered  what  would  happen  ?  Had  they  met 
before?  Would  Zita  ever  raise  her  eyes?  Would  the 
youth  ever  leave  off  gazing  at  her? 

The  embarrassing  situation  lasted  for  some  time. 
Christine  felt  certain  that  both  the  youth  and  Zita  were 
enjoying  delicious  thrills. 

When  Christine  had  eaten  as  many  strawberry  tarts  as 
she  could  manage  and  had  drunk  two  cups  of  chocolate — 
Zita's  appetite  had  suddenly  left  her — she  said,  "Will 
Signer  Mazzini  be  back  from  his  work  yet?  It  is  six 
o'clock." 

Time  had  not  existed  for  Zita.     She  rose  guiltily  from 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  87 

her  chair.  "Si,  si,  Signorina,  prego  mi  scusa.  I  must 
hasten ;  I  have  the  key."  She  looked  anxious.  "Salvatore 
will  be  alarmed  if  he  finds  the  house  closed." 

Christine  rose  from  her  chair  and  went  to  the  counter. 
"Please  to  be  quick,"  she  said.  "I  wish  to  pay  for  five 
cakes  and  three  cups  of  chocolate." 

Zita  stood  by  her  side,  a  delicious  shy  little  figure.  The 
youth  who  had  been  seated  with  his  aunt  had  risen  from 
his  chair  the  moment  they  rose  and  was  now  standing 
beside  them.  With  the  grace  of  a  courtier  he  bowed  and 
said: 

"I  hope  the  Signorina  arrived  safely  in  Girgenti  the 
other  night?  I  have  blamed  myself  for  leaving  her  to  go 
so  far  alone." 

"Grazie,  Signer,  I  arrived  quite  safely.  It  has  been 
my  wish  to  let  you  know,  to  thank  you,  but  how  could  I? 
You  were  too  kind."  Her  lashes  fluttered,  her  blushes 
delighted  him. 

"Niente,  niente,"  he  said.  "It  was  my  good  fortune 
to  be  able  to  assist  you.  I  went  to  your  church  last 
Sunday." 

She  smiled.   "I  did  not  go,  Signer ;  it  was  not  possible." 

Christine  had  got  her  change.  She  wished  that  she 
could  have  lingered  longer,  so  as  to  give  the  young  couple 
their  chance,  but  she  had  no  reason  for  doing  so. 

"Again  I  thank  you,  Signor,"  Zita  said  demurely. 
"My  brother  had  not  returned.  I  was  in  good  time.  I 
shall  always  remain  grateful  to  you." 

"Addio,  Signorina."  The  fine  bow  was  made  again  as 
Zita  passed  out  of  the  shop. 

To  Christine  such  a  meeting  with  any  man  would  have 
counted  for  very  little,  but  she  did  not  yet  know  her  Sicily. 
She  did  not  know  that  it  was  a  very  daring  thing  for  the 
youth  to  do.  Sicily  owes  many  of  its  customs  to  the 
unchanging  East.  Youths  of  the  lower  and  middle  classes 
still  adhere  to  the  old-fashioned  ways  of  approaching  the 
object  of  their  adoration.  A  young  man,  if  he  admires 


88  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

a  girl  and  wishes  to  marry  her,  approaches  her  in  the  most 
distant  and  elaborate  method.  The  girl  herself  is  the  last 
person  to  whom  he  must  pay  his  addresses. 

Although  Christine  had  only  met  Zita  for  the  first 
time  an  hour  before,  they  had  drawn  near  to  each  other. 
Between  them  there  was  an  instinctive  bond  of  sympathy 
and  understanding.  Christine  felt  that  Zita  was  lonely, 
that  she  lived  a  life  apart  from  the  ordinary  girls  of  her 
position.  It  was  the  consciousness  of  sympathy  that  made 
her  say,  with  no  fear  of  being  misunderstood : 

"What  good  fortune  that  we  went  to  that  shop,  Zita. 
Were  you  glad  to  see  him?"  Christine  spoke  meaningly. 
They  were  girls  together,  enjoying  a  small  outing. 

"Si,  si,  Signorina,  I  was  very  glad  to  be  able  to  thank 
him.  One  evening  he  drove  me  home  in  his  cart  from 
Porto  Empedocle.  It  was  very  kind  of  him." 

"Oh,  very  kind — I  agree  with  you!"  Christine  laughed. 
"He  is  very  handsome  and  he  looks  prosperous." 

"Gia,  gia,  and  I  think  very  honourable  and  sincere." 

"I  hope  so."  Christine  could  scarcely  suppress  her 
laughter.  "What  a  demure  child  it  was !  Your  men 
have  such  pretty  names;  our  English  names  are  not  so 
romantic.  What  is  he  called?" 

"I  do  not  know  his  name,  not  at  all.  Prego,  Signorina, 
do  not  mention  to  my  brother  Salvatore  that  anyone  spoke 
to  me." 

Christine  laughed  gaily.  She  had  hit  upon  an  intrigue. 
How  much  had  there  been  behind  all  Zita's  demure  shy 
manner,  her  downward  glances?" 

"Pie  is  a  stranger.  I  shall  never  see  him  again,"  Zita 
said  excitedly.  "Salvatore  would  be  distressed  if  he  knew 
that  I  had  permitted  a  stranger  to  drive  me  home.  He 
did  not  know  that  I  was  at  the  port,  it  was  all  a  mistake." 

Christine  promised  to  be  discreet.  "But  you  will  see 
him  again,  Zita — you  know  you  will.  A  girl  always 
knows." 

"Ah,    no,    no!      Signorina,    he    is    a    stranger    to    my 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  89 

brother.  We  shall  never  speak  to  each  other  again." 
She  spoke  convincingly,  but  Christine  was  ignorant  of  the 
fact  that  the  youth  knew  her  church. 


CHAPTER  IX 

WHEN  they  arrived  at  the  Casa  Salvatore  Zita  unlocked 
the  door  and  they  went  in.  Before  Christine  had  seated 
herself  Salvatore  appeared.  They  were  just  in  time. 

When  he  saw  her  his  delight  was  apparent  as  the 
delight  of  a  child,  a  child  who  suddenly  finds  that  life 
is  as  good  and  wonderful  a  thing  as  the  best  seaside- 
advertisement. 

After  a  conventional  but  gracious  greeting,  he  said  to 
his  sister,  "Have  you  given  the  Signorina  her  jewel-box? 
Are  you  satisfied  with  it,  Signorina?" 

Zita  answered  him  in  rapid  and  elaborate  Sicilian.  "I 
told  a  fib — I  said  I  couldn't  find  it  and  asked  her  to  return 
at  six  o'clock;  she  arrived  an  hour  ago." 

"Why  did  you  pretend?"  He  also  spoke  in  dialect;  his 
eyes  thanked  her. 

"I  wanted  to  give  you  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  again." 

Salvatore  turned  to  Christine,  who  was  laughing  at 
Zita's  flow  of  Sicilian,  of  which  she  had  not  understood  one 
word. 

"I  am  sorry,  Signorina — it  was  stupid  of  my  sister  to 
forget.  I  will  get  it  for  you." 

He  unlocked  the  gay  box  which  held  all  the  unrepaired 
antiques  and  took  out  of  it  a  smaller  box,  then  quickly 
mounting  on  a  chair,  he  opened  the  door  of  the  wall- 
cupboard. 

"It  is  in  this  box,  but  the  key  is  in  the  cupboard, 
Signorina." 

When  he  was  too  high  up  for  Christine  to  see  what  he 
was  doing,  he  opened  the  box,  which  was  empty,  and  put 


90  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

it  on  a  shelf  in  the  cupboard.  The  repaired  jewel-case 
was  just  where  he  had  placed  it  when  he  told  Zita  that  it 
was  ready  for  La  Primavera.  He  lifted  it  up  carefully 
and  jumped  down  from  the  chair.  Christine  held  out  her 
hands  to  receive  it. 

After  examining  it  for  a  moment  she  said,  "Thank  you. 
I  love  it."  Her  eyes,  as  blue  and  true  as  a  child's,  ex- 
pressed her  pleasure.  Salvatore's  senses  danced. 

"Then  the  little  box  must  be  happy,  Signorina,  and  I 
am  proud." 

"I  shall  always  treasure  it  very  highly,"  Christine  said 
shyly. 

"And  I  shall  always  be  glad  to  know  that  something 
which  was  once  mine  now  belongs  to  you,  Signorina.  It  is 
an  honour." 

Christine  wished  that  she  knew  how  to  speak  to  the 
brother  and  sister  in  the  dignified  and  courteous  language 
which  seemed  instinctive  to  both,  but  she  could  only  blush 
and  smile,  which  was  of  course  all  that  Salvatore  wanted. 
The  right  woman  never  does  the  wrong  things. 

"Have  you  found  any  antiques  since  I  saw  you?  Have 
you  any  fresh  treasure  in  your  house  to  show  me,  Signor 
Mazzini  ?" 

It  was  now  Salvatore's  turn  to  blush,  but  it  was  his  soul 
which  blushed,  not  his  face.  He  had,  indeed,  some  new 
antiques  in  his  house;  were  her  white-shod  feet  not  stand- 
ing on  their  hiding-place?  Suddenly  he  longed  to  tell 
her,  to  stand  before  her  as  the  man  he  felt  himself  to  be,  a 
man  whose  honour  had  been  sacrificed  for  gain.  Yet  how 
could  he  tell  her?  It  was  because  of  her  belief  in  him  that 
her  presence  was  sweetening  his  home,  which  lately  had 
been  almost  unbearable  to  him. 

"I  have  one  or  two  small  things,  if  you  would  care  to 
see  them,  Signorina,"  he  said  nervously. 

Salvatore  placed  the  things  before  her  on  the  table ;  she 
had  seated  herself  at  it.  One  was  a  vase  with  a  red  body 
ground,  with  a  design  in  black  round  its  neck  and  base; 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  91 

between  the  two  designs  there  were  black  horses  of 
extraordinarily  slender  anatomy,  ridden  by  still  more 
attenuated,  shield-bearing  warriors ;  the  other  was  a  black 
drinking-cup,  ornamented  with  red  figures. 

After  examining  them  carefully,  Christine  asked  Salva- 
tore  which  was  the  older  of  the  two. 

He  picked  up  a  plain  biscuit-coloured  terracotta  quaich, 
which  he  had  just  placed  beside  the  others,  and  said,  "That 
is  the  oldest  of  the  three.  Senta,  Signorina,  even  in  the 
prehistoric  civilisations  dishes  of  some  sort  were  used. 
They  were  made  by  hand  out  of  clay  and  dried  in  the  sun. 
Gradually  the  people  began  to  decorate  them  with  roughly 
scratched  designs ;  later  on  they  discovered  that  oven-heat 
would  make  them  more  durable.  «*Ovens  are  very  ancient 
things,  Signorina.  Then  the  next  development  in  the  art 
was  glaze.  The  red  terracotta  was  glazed  and  the  primi- 
tive scratchings  gave  place  to  more  ornate  patterns ;  later 
on  figures  and  festival  scenes  appeared,  which  were  all 
done  in  black  glaze.  Lastly  came  the  idea  of  drawing  the 
designs  in  outline  on  the  vase  before  it  was  glazed  and 
fired  and  then  filling  the  background  in  with  the  black 
glaze,  reversing  the  order  of  things.  At  the  best  period 
the  glaze  became  smooth  and  fine,  the  figures  became 
human  and  graceful.  At  that  period  the  artists  took  a 
delight  in  their  work  and  abandoned  the  archaic  types  and 
conventions."  He  paused.  "But  can  you  understand  me, 
Signorina  ?" 

Christine  had  followed  him  quite  easily.  He  had  spoken 
in  English. 

"Your  English  is  so  good,"  she  said,  "I  understood 
everything  you  said.  I  am  very  interested — do  please  tell 
me  more." 

"I  am  very  glad,"  he  said  gravely.  "I  have  been  study- 
ing my  English." 

Christine  looked  at  the  black  designs  on  the  vase  she 
held  in  her  hand.  "I  don't  see  how  they  managed  to  keep 
the  lines  so  clear  and  delicate — the  legs  of  those  horses — 


92  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

look  at  them!  They  are  just  as  if  they  had  been  put  on 
with  an  etching  pen;  and  yet  you  say  that  the  glaze  was 
put  on  and  these  fines  lines  were  left;  they  are  the  body 
colour  of  the  vase." 

"Si,  si,  Signorina,  the  horses  and  the  conventional  de- 
sign are  the  natural  body  colour  of  the  vase." 

"What  steady  hands  they  had !  I  suppose  they  weren't 
stencilled?"  Christine  illustrated  what  she  meant. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"To  keep  the  glaze  from  running  must  have  been  a 
terrible  business !"  Christine  looked  dubious. 

"Certamente,  Signorina." 

"What  a  fascinating  study — the  glazing,  I  mean." 
She  smoothed  the  surface  of  the  vase  with  her  finger  tips. 

"That  is  my  special  study,  Signorina — the  glaze  of  our 
old  Caltagirone  ware." 

"Oh,  do  tell  me  about  it !    Are  you  trying  to     .     .     ." 

He  interrupted  her.  "Ah,  Signorina,"  he  said,  "there 
is  little  to  tell,  but  I  do  not  think  enough  is  made  to-day 
of  Sicily's  and  Italy's  natural  materials  for  pottery  and 
fine  glazes.  It  was  the  potters'  clay  of  Ischia  that  served 
the  famous  potters  of  Cumae.  For  many  centuries  Italy 
was  celebrated  for  her  glazed  potteries. 

"I  want  to  go  to  Ischia,"  Christine  said  enthusiasti- 
cally. "It  looks  so  beautiful,  lying  like  a  fairy  fortress 
in  the  blue  sea.  I  saw  it  from  Capri.  I  must  go." 

"When  I  was  little  I  lived  there  with  my  grandmother. 
It  is  a  beautiful  Island." 

While  they  were  talking  Zita  was  knitting  and  smiling 
to  herself.  Salvatore  was  happy,  happier  than  he  had 
been  since  the  two  urns  had  been  brought  into  their  home, 
and  it  was  she  who  had  given  him  this  pleasure!  By  tell- 
ing a  little  lie,  she  had  made  Salvatore  young  again. 
Well,  his  happiness  was  worth  a  Mass. 

As  she  took  covert  glances  at  Christine,  she  kept  won- 
dering to  herself  if  La  Primavera  was  really  in  love  with 
the  Signore,  if  she  was  going  to  marry  him,  and  if  she 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  93 

did,  would  he  make  her  happy?  She  was  so  beautiful  and 
gracious;  surely  no  man  could  be  unkind  to  her?  Surely 
he  would  never  tire  of  her  fairness?  To  Zita  it  was 
wonderful. 

She  watched  Salvatore.  If  only  he  had  been  born  in 
better  circumstances,  what  a  fine  lover  he  would  have  made 
for  the  Signorina!  Seated  at  the  table  together  they  were 
well  mated.  Christine's  pink  skin  and  glittering  hair 
were  a  fine  foil  for  her  companion's  dark  eyes  and  hair 
and  classic  features. 

If  love  levels  all  things — as  we  arc  assured  that  it 
does — in  Sicily  Cupid's  task  is  not  a  very  difficult  one. 

A  wonderful  hour  fled,  fled  so  quickly  that  when  Chris- 
tine heard  the  cathedral  clock  strike  seven  she  rose  and 
hastily  collected  her  things.  She  did  not  wish  to  go ;  her 
companion  was  interesting  and  charming,  and  he  was  in 
the  middle  of  telling  her  how  all  vases  as  well  as  statuary 
figures  probably  had  their  origin  in  the  human  form. 
Primitive  art  took  its  inspiration  direct  from  Nature.  But 
she  would  only  get  back  in  time  for  dinner  if  she  left  at 
once. 

As  she  put  on  her  gloves  Salvatore  said,  "Prego, 
Signorina,  I  can  show  you  in  the  Girgenti  Museum  a 
primitive  vase  which  obviously  represents  the  trunk  of  the 
human  body ;  on  it  are  painted  the  legs,  arms  and  head  of 
the  human  being." 

"I  should  like  to  see  the  museum,"  she  said.  "Could 
you  spare  time  to  go  with  me?  But  it  closes  at  four  o'clock 
— you  couldn't  get  back  in  time."  She  looked  sorry. 

"There  is  Sunday,  Signorina.  I  could  show  you  many 
things  which  you  may  have  overlooked  or  not  under- 
stood." 

They  had  stepped  out  into  the  street  together;  their 
faces  were  eager. 

"If  I  can  leave  my  aunt,  I  will  come  on  Sunday.  She 
dislikes  museums;  she  only  likes  long  drives." 

"I  shall  be  at  your  service,  Signorina;  if  you  cannot 


94  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

come  I  will  go  on  with  my  work.  It  will  be  something  to 
hope  for." 

They  were  standing  in  the  street.  Christine  had  begun 
her  good-byes,  which  always  take  some  time  in  Sicily. 

"Prego,  Signorina,  the  schoolboys  may  annoy  you — 
they  are  very  rough  and  troublesome  in  Girgenti.  May  I 
accompany  you?" 

Christine  smiled.  "I  should  like  it,"  she  said,  "but 
what  about  your  sister  and  your  evening  meal?" 

Zita  smiled  encouragingly.  "I  will  prepare  Salvatore's 
supper  and  have  it  ready  for  him  when  he  returns.  Addio, 
Signorina,  addio." 

When  they  were  alone  they  returned  to  the  subject 
which  had  been  interrupted  by  the  striking  of  the  clock, 
the  inspiration  of  primitive  art.  Near  the  Villa  Garibaldi 
Salvatore  picked  a  leaf  off  a  tree ;  neatly  holding  its  sides 
and  stem  together  with  his  thumb  and  first  finger,  he  made 
it  into  a  drinking-cup. 

"Senta,  Signorina,  you  will  see  many  such  dishes  of  sun- 
baked clay  in  the  Museum,  just  like  a  leaf  folded  together 
at  the  sides  and  end.  The  point  goes  into  the  mouth — 
so,"  he  opened  his  mouth  to  receive  the  pointed  end  of  the 
leaf.  "Many  times  I  have  used  a  leaf  for  a  cup ;  it  is  very 
pleasant.  If  you  fold  up  the  other  end  of  it,  you  sec,  you 
can  make  it  into  a  saucer,  which  will  hold  oil  and  a  wick ; 
such  saucers  served  for  lamps  and  for  incense." 

"You  have  one  before  the  picture  of  the  Virgin?" 

"Si,  si.  Probably  it  was  in  use  five  or  six  hundred  years 
before  the  Blessed  Virgin  was  born ;  it  may  have  served  the 
same  purpose  in  one  of  the  temples  down  there." 

They  were  standing  still.  The  leaf  was  in  Christine's 
hands.  Their  eyes  were  interested  only  in  each  other  when 
they  were  startled  by  the  sudden  and  very  near  presence  of 
a  man.  It  was  Count  Zarano. 

"I  am  going  to  the  hotel,  Miss  Lovat.  I  can  escort  you 
home."  He  turned  to  Salvatore.  "You  can  go  back, 
Salvatore." 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  95 

Salvatore's  anger  was  roused;  his  pride  was  wounded. 
Why  did  the  Signore  speak  to  him  just  as  he  might  have 
spoken  to  some  paid  city  guide.  Why  had  he  turned  up 
at  that  particular  moment,  when  all  the  world  was  heaven 
and  heaven  envious? 

With  his  coming  had  come  also  the  memory  of  his  own 
dishonesty.  He  visualized  the  urns  with  a  horrible  clear- 
ness lying  under  the  hearthstone.  His  pale  face  flushed. 
He  could  say  nothing;  he  recognized  instantly  that  what 
Zita  had  said  was  true.  From  the  night  he  committed  the 
theft  and  for  ever  more  he  would  be  in  the  Count's  power. 

Christine  turned  to  Salvatore;  her  eyes  showed  her 
regret.  "Addio,  Signor  Mazzini,"  she  said.  "It  was 
more  than  kind  of  you  to  come  so  far  with  me  after  your 
hard  day's  work,  but  as  Count  Zarano  is  going  to  the 
Hotel,  you  must  save  yourself  the  journey.  Grazie  ed 
addio."  She  smiled  regretfully. 

"Addio,  Signorina."  Salvatore's  anger  was  impotent; 
he  was  tongue-tied  and  wretched. 

"Addio  until  Sunday,"  Christine  said  again.  "That  is 
to  say,  if  I  can  manage  it." 

Salvatore  returned  her  sympathetic  smile. 

"What  is  to  happen  on  Sunday?"  the  Count  asked  as 
they  hurried  down  the  hill.  There  was  a  new  air  of  pro- 
prietorship in  his  manner  which  amazed  Christine  a  little, 
even  while  it  subtly  pleased  her.  It  made  her  feel  "comfy" 
and  inexplicably  feminine;  she  was  being  appropriated  in 
an  almost  "engaged"  fashion.  She  wanted  to  laugh;  it 
was  so  funny ;  the  way  her  companion  managed  to  express 
in  no  words  at  all  that  it  was  his  right  to  protect  and 
guard  her.  It  was,  she  had  to  admit,  extremely  clever,  if 
a  little  annoying. 

Instead  of  laughing,  she  said,  "I  am  going  to  the 
Museum  on  Sunday  with  Salvatore  Mazzini.  He  is 
awfully  interesting,  isn't  he?" 

The  Count  looked  at  her  suspiciously.  His  eyes  became 
cruel.  Christine  did  not  see  them,  more  is  the  pity ! 


96  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

"I  hope  the  youth  hasn't  been  thrusting  himself  on  you. 
If  he  is  forward  just  let  me  know." 

"Forward?  Of  course  he  wasn't!  And  as  for  thrust- 
ing himself  on  me — I  went  to  see  him  at  his  house.  I 
enjoyed  going." 

"Please  don't  be  angry  with  me,  Miss  Lovat.  I  know 
these  Sicilians ;  I  don't  want  you  to  be  annoyed.  When 
they  lose  their  heads  over  a  beautiful  Englishwoman,  they 
forget  their  position.  Remember,  this  is  the  truth." 

"Please  don't  say  such  things !  You  have  spoilt  every- 
thing. The  man  is  so  dignified,  so  polite."  Christine 
looked  distressed.  "Besides,  it  is  silly  to  speak  of  me  like 
that.  I  am  not  beautiful,  and  you  must  think  me  an  idiot 
if  I  believed  you." 

She  spoke  hotly;  there  was  genuine  annoyance  in  her 
voice. 

The  Count  stopped.  Christine's  path  was  blocked  by 
his  sudden  movement. 

He  stood  directly  in  front  of  her  and  looking  straight 
into  her  eyes,  he  said,  "Miss  Lovat,  how  could  any  youth 
who  is  human  keep  his  head  cool,  his  senses  calm?  Salva- 
tore  has  eyes  for  human  beauty,  even  if  he  lives  in  a  cot- 
tage. I  know  what  I  am  talking  about;  I  know  what  I 
myself  feel  when  I  look  into  those  blue  eyes.  If  he  does 
astonish  you  some  day,  he  is  not  to  blame." 

"Don't  be  ridiculous!  You  are  talking  absolute  non- 
sense!" Christine's  heart  was  behaving  abominably,  but 
she  spoke  calmly.  The  man  seemed  in  deadly  earnest. 

"It  is  not  nonsense,"  he  said,  "it  is  only  too  true.  That 
dear  little  nose  of  yours  is  not  classic,  but  it  is  adorable; 
that  wayward  mouth  is  not  Greek,  but  it  is  maddening. 
If  you  were  more  correctly  beautiful  you  would  not  be 
Christine,  you  would  not  be  the  girl  whose  every  fault  is 
a  charm.  It  is  quite  true  that  there  is  nothing  classic 
about  you,  except  your  coloring,  which  to  satisfy  their 
caprice,  the  fairies  stole  at  your  birth  from  the  asphodels." 
He  gazed  into  the  girl's  astonished  eyes.  "That  is  not 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  97 

half  the  truth,  not  half  of  the  song  that  is  in  my  heart  all 
day  long." 

Christine  was  trembling;  her  senses  were  bewildered. 
He  had  taken  her  completely  by  surprise.  The  moment 
before  he  had  looked  so  unloverlike  that  her  own  foolish 
envy  of  the  kiss  he  had  bestowed  upon  her  aunt's  hand 
had  flashed  across  her  memory  as  an  absurd  piece  of  senti- 
mentality. It  was  the  fault  of  the  Moonlight  Sonata. 

She  made  no  attempt  to  answer  him.  Her  girlish  be- 
wilderment delighted  him;  he  had  certainly  touched  her 
emotions,  if  her  passions  were  still  dormant. 

"In  Scotland  it  may  take  you  months  to  learn  what  in 
Sicily  we  often  learn  in  a  few  hours.  Look  at  the  vegeta- 
tion; it  will  tell  you  the  character  of  the  people.  Things 
grow  up  in  a  night ;  flowers  bud  and  blossom  and  die  long 
before  they  have  made  up  their  minds  to  awake  from  their 
winter  of  discontent  in  Scotland."  His  voice  became 
calmer.  "As  your  friend  I  am  warning  you.  Salvatore 
Mazzini  is  just  a  nice  young  fellow,  but  in  Sicily  a  beggar 
may  look  like  a  King!  Human  nature  is  the  same  in  all 
classes;  but  remember  that  the  men  of  his  class  have  not 
the  same  command  of  their  emotions." 

"Thank  you,"  Christine  said.  "I  will  remember."  Her 
voice  was  troubled.  The  world  seemed  changed. 

No  more  was  said.    The  time  was  not  yet  ripe. 

They  walked  on  in  silence.  A  high-wheeled  cart,  laden 
with  purple  cauliflowers,  opportunely  separated  them  for 
a  minute  or  two.  When  they  came  together  again  the 
Count  apologised. 

"Forgive  me,  Miss  Lovat,  if  I  let  my  unruly  member 
say  things  that  I  have  struggled  not  to  say.  I  will  not 
allow  it  to  repeat  the  indiscretion." 

Christine  smiled.  "Of  course  I  will  forgive  you,  if  you 
will  not  be  so  .  .  ."  she  paused. 

"Yes,  I  promise,  I  will  not  be  so  .  .  ."  He  laughed 
happily.  "Not  yet,"  he  said  to  himself,  "not  yet." 

As  he  clasped  the  hand  she  held  out  as  a  token  of  friend- 


98  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

ship,  he  said,  "I  wonder  what  Sicily  will  teach  you,  Miss 
Lovat?  I  often  wonder  if  you  will  carry  back  those  same 
eyes  to  England.  You,  who  are  so  eager  to  learn  Sicily's 
past,  to  study  her  dead  peoples,  to  link  together  her  tat- 
tered story — how  much  will  you  understand  of  the 
humanity  of  her  living?  Will  you  ignore  it  altogether? 
Will  you  be  content  to  remain  in  ignorance  of  the  char- 
acteristics and  passions  of  the  people  around  you?" 

"How  can  I  study  them,"  she  asked  laughingly,  "if  you 
say  that  I  must  not  know  them,  if  I  may  not  enjoy  the 
society  of  an  intelligent  and  cultivated  young  man  like 
Mazzini?" 

"Is  it  quite  wise  to  begin  with  a  man  of  that  class?" 

"That  class !"  she  said  scornfully.  "He  is  of  no  class ! 
I  hate  the  word  'class.'  God  just  sends  men  like  Salvatore 
Mazzini  into  the  world  in  any  class.  He  distributes  the 
spirit  of  genius  with  an  exquisite  disregard  for  what  you 
call  class.  Christ  himself  belonged  to  the  class  in  which 
Salvatore  Mazzini's  material  body  moves."  When  Chris- 
tine stopped  speaking  she  became  embarrassed.  She  had 
seldom  expressed  her  feelings  as  strongly  to  the  Count; 
she  stood  too  greatly  in  awe  of  his  learning. 

"As  you  will,  Miss  Lovat,  only  don't  spoil  my  intelli- 
gent workman." 

"Of  course  I  won't." 

"Then  you  will  not  go  to  the  Museum  on  Sunday?  You 
will  take  my  advice?" 

"I  will  go  to  the  Museum  if  my  aunt  can  spare  me." 
She  paused  for  a  moment  and  then  said,  "How  beautiful 
his  sister  is!  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  a  more  beautiful 
girl.  Did  you?" 

The  Count's  red-brown  eyes  never  flickered  as  they 
looked  into  Christine's.  She  was  watching  him  closely. 

"Zita  is  almost  perfect,"  he  said.  "It  is  a  pity  that 
these  Sicilian  girls  fade  and  grow  old  so  soon.  She  is  at 
her  best  now.  How  old  do  you  suppose  she  is,  Miss 
Lovat?" 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  99 

"Nineteen  or  twenty.  She  is  so  dignified  and  wise  that 
she  might  be  older,  but  I  know  they  develop  very  early." 

"She  is  just  seventeen.  If  she  marries  soon  and  has  a 
hard  life,  she  will  look  old  and  wretched  by  the  time  she  is 
twenty-four.  In  the  working  classes  women  are  old  at 
thirty.  In  Scotland  they  are  not  old  at  twice  that  age." 

"How  dreadful!    Can't  we  save  her?" 

"I  should  like  to,"  he  said  sympathetically.  "She  is 
worthy  of  better  things."  He  spoke  sincerely ;  but  Chris- 
tine did  not  realise  what  his  idea  of  saving  the  girl  meant. 

"Surely  if  she  has  been  educated  she  can  work?  She 
need  not  become  a  poor  man's  slave?" 

The  Count  shook  his  head.  "Sicilian  girls  do  not  work 
in  the  way  you  mean,  Miss  Lovat.  The  humblest  of  them 
is  guarded  and  chaperoned  and  sheltered  until  some  man 
comes  along  and  asks  for  her  hand  in  marriage.  The  girl 
is  given  in  marriage,  and  she  must  give  her  husband  many 
children,  even  if  he  has  nothing  to  feed  them  on.  And  so 
they  become  old  and  their  beauty  is  forgotten." 

"Oh,  but  that  little  Greek  girl  must  not  live  like  that !" 

"She  probably  will.  She  has  no  dowry,  and  she  really 
belongs  to  the  working  classes,  whatever  her  Greek  an- 
cestors may  have  been."  He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  can't  bear  to  think  of  it,"  Christine  said  sadly. 

"There  is  so  much  one  cannot  bear  to  think  of  in 
Sicily." 

Christine  looked  at  him.  "Is  my  Laughing  Land  really 
a  land  of  tragedy,  a  garden  of  tears  ?" 

"There  are  the  sulphur  mines,"  he  said,  "and  the  gen- 
eral condition  of  the  poorest  classes  won't  bear  looking 
into." 

"And  yet  they  are  never  filthy  or  degraded,  like  the 
poor  in  Glasgow  and  London." 

"They  are  Nature's  gentlefolk;  even  in  their  direst 
poverty  they  are  self-respecting." 

Before  Christine's  eyes  new  worlds  and  new  ideas  of  life 
seemed  to  be  quickly  and  sadly  unfolding  themselves. 


100  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

There  were  so  many  aged  poor  people  in  Sicily  that  she 
had  imagined  that  the  people  lived  to  a  great  age,  that 
their  outdoor  life  kept  them  strong  and  healthy.  It  was 
a  shock  to  discover  that  these  very  aged  people  were 
scarcely  older  than  her  aunt,  that  the  middle-aged  ones 
were  practically  young  women.  She  turned  to  the  Count 
impulsively : 

"Could  I  see  over  a  sulphur  mine?" 

"Yes,  if  you  would  really  care  to  see  one,  and  if  your 
aunt  will  allow  you  to  make  the  excursion.  It  will  be  in- 
teresting, but  not  lovely,  remember." 

"I  think  I  could  get  Miss  Hudson  to  come  with  us." 

"Ah,  now  you  can't  trust  me!  You  won't  go  alone 
because  I  behaved  like  a  foolish  boy  a  minute  ago." 

"I  never  thought  of  that,  I  really  didn't.  But  I  don't 
believe  Auntie  would  approve  of  a  whole-day  excursion 
together — it's  different." 

"Then  ask  Miss  Hudson  to  come,"  he  said.  "It  is  not 
a  beautiful  sight ;  it  is  Sicily  at  its  ugliest,  but  it  is  Sicily 
as  truly  as  all  this  is  Sicily."  He  pointed  to  the  almond 
blossom  on  the  hills. 

"I  ought  to  see  her  ugly  side  too,  for  I  do  want  to  under- 
stand Sicily." 

"I  wonder  if  you  ever  will?"  he  said.  "Or  if  you  will 
always  look  at  it  through  rose-tinted  glasses?" 

"Am  I  so  dense?"  she  said. 

"Now  it  is  you  who  are  insincere,"  he  spoke  quickly. 
"You  know  I  don't  mean  that.  What  I  wonder  is  if  you 
with  your  northern  instincts  and  traditions  and  training, 
will  ever  really  understand  this  complex  and  secretive 
people.  I  doubt  it.  Have  you  felt  sufficiently?  Do  you 
know  how  true  a  thing  it  is  that  nothing  ever  dies  ?  That 
nothing  is  without  an  influence?  Sicily  is  all  the  things 
she  ever  has  been  rolled  into  one.  In  these  peoples  of 
apparently  simple  emotions,  there  are  the  racial  instincts 
and  characteristics  of  a  long  list  of  widely  different  in- 
vaders. Some  of  them  were  cruel  usurpers,  with  amazing 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  101 

blood  in  their  veins."  He  sighed.  "Nature  and  man  seem 
to  have  been  allied  against  Sicily,  for  it  has  been  tortured 
by  its  conquerers  and  has  had  to  contend  with  Nature  'red 
in  tooth  and  claw.' ': 

"My  Laughing  Land,  my  poor,  proud  Sicily." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "you  are  right — poor,  proud  Sicily." 

"They  have  good  reason  to  be  proud,"  Christine  said. 
"If  I  had  to  be  reborn  and  I  couldn't  be  Scots,  I  would  be 
an  Italian,  which  means  Sicily  too,  of  course." 

"You  aren't  like  most  Scots  women,  who  naturally  dis- 
trust all  foreigners,  and  who  think  the  British  Isles  sum 
up  the  Holy  Trinity  of  the  world !" 

Christine  laughed.  "I  think  my  aunt  did  until  she  met 
you." 

"Then  you  think  I  have  found  favour  in  her  eyes?" 
He  looked  radiant.  "I  certainly  did  not  in  yours,  when 
she  introduced  us,  did  I?" 

"A  good  bridge  hand  can  do  a  great  deal."  Christine 
ignored  the  latter  part  of  his  remark.  "With  bridge  and 
music  many  rivers  can  be  crossed."  She  hummed  the  air 
of  the  old  song,  "I  built  a  bridge  of  Fancy."  "My  aunt 
seems  to  have  forgotten  that  you  are  a  'foreigner,'  that 
you  were  born  east  of  the  Rhine." 

"Now  you  are  laughing  at  me,  Miss  Lovat !  But  I  am 
sincerely  glad  your  aunt  enjoys  my  music  as  much  as  I 
en j  oy  her  society,  for  it  gives  me  genuine  pleasure  to  amuse 
a  woman  of  her  age,  '1'age  dangereuese.'  Middle-age  is  so 
little  tolerated  in  the  South,  whereas  old  age  is  often  ten- 
derly guarded.  A  woman  when  she  is  no  longer  young, 
when  she  has  lost  her  beaute-de-diable,  has  a  poor  time  in 
the  South — that  is  to  say,  if  she  has  no  children,  or  the 
social  position  and  wealth  which  will  assure  her  a  certain 
kind  of  attention." 

As  Christine  listened  to  him  she  said  to  herself,  "This 
is  the  man  who  healed  the  suffering  kid,  this  is  the  real 
man." 

"Your  aunt,"  he  said,  "has  been  very  kind  to  me.     For 


102  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

that  I  shall  always  be  delighted  to  please  her,  whenever  it 
lies  in  my  power." 

Christine's  blushes  told  him  that  his  words  had  been 
understood. 

When  they  reached  the  hotel  Mrs.  Bullock  greeted  them 
in  a  harsh  and  acid  voice.  She  was  elaborately  dressed  and 
ready  for  dinner. 

"What  ages  you  have  been,  Christine !" 

"Yes,  I  know,  I  have  been  perfect  ages,  Auntie!  Do 
forgive  me." 

"I  overtook  your  niece,  Mrs.  Bullock,  and  accompanied 
her.  I  know  you  agree  with  me  that  it  is  not  wise  for  her 
to  go  about  so  much  alone." 

"I  have  told  Christine — I  feel  certain  she  will  be  gar- 
rotted one  day !  I  don't  know  how  she  dares  to  go  so  far 
from  the  hotel ;  I  wouldn't  1" 

"If  I  was  born  without  grace,  Auntie,  I  was  also  born 
without  fear.  I  just  never  think  of  these  things." 

"Then  go  and  get  ready  for  dinner  and  do  put  on  some- 
thing 'dressy'  for  a  change — I'm  tired  of  seeing  you  in 
shirt  blouses." 

"I'll  do  my  best,  but  all  my  'gay  rags'  are  so  abominably 
crushed  that  I  can't  wear  them." 

As  Christine  flew  upstairs,  two  steps  at  a  time,  her  slim 
feet  scarcely  seemed  to  touch  the  steps.  She  had  already 
taken  off  her  hat;  she  waved  it  over  the  banisters  to  her 
aunt,  who  was  watching  her. 

"Such  a  torn-boy!"  Mrs.  Bullock  said  to  the  Count. 
"She  ought  really  to  have  been  a  boy.  I'm  sure  I  don't 
know  what  sort  of  wife  she  will  make!" 

"She  is  a  great  treat  in  this  country,"  he  said.  "I  enjoy 
studying  her  type ;  it  is  so  thoroughly  British — half  boy, 
half  girl." 

"There  is  very  little  to  study  so  far,  I  fear.  She  throws 
all  her  interests  and  energies  into  things  which  can't  do  her 
any  good  or  be  of  any  use  to  her  in  the  future.  She  is 
ignorant  of  all  the  things  a  woman  ought  to  know ;  she  is  a 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  103 

hopeless  housekeeper,  absolutely  hopeless."  Mrs.  Bullock's 
voice  was  tragic. 

"But,  my  dear  lady,  you  wouldn't  have  her  different? 
Her  innocence  is  her  charm.  Sicilian  girls  have  a  woman's 
knowledge  in  their  cradles,  it  is  born  in  them;  they  are 
never  boyish.  Whereas  in  your  niece  there  is  .  .  ."  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders  expressively.  "There  is  the 
promise  of  ..."  He  did  not  finish  his  sentence ;  it 
was  wiser  to  change  it.  "She  is  still  enjoying  her  girl- 
hood, her  womanliness  will  come  in  good  time." 

"I  could  do  with  a  little  more  womanliness  now !  Really, 
she  provokes  me  sometimes." 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  he  said  sympathetically.  "Of 
course  you  naturally  miss  the  exchange  of  thought  with  an 
awakened  soul,  a  matured  mind.  How  a  woman  like  you 
must  miss  her  husband!"  He  hazarded  the  remark.  He 
knew  that  Mrs.  Bullock  had  not  been  a  widow  long,  but  of 
her  married  life  he  was  ignorant. 

"You  are  right,"  she  said,  "nothing  can  take  the  place 
of  a  devoted  husband."  She  did  not  tell  him  that  the 
husband's  devotion  and  their  happiness  had  not  been  the 
result  of  her  own  unselfish  nature.  Christine's  uncle  had 
married  the  spoilt  heiress  of  a  wealthy  Manchester  manu- 
facturer. 

"Dear  lady,"  he  said,  "I  felt  sure  I  was  right."  He 
put  his  hand  lightly  on  hers.  "Your  niece  could  not  pos- 
sibly understand  or  fill  the  gap ;  the  world  is  still  her  play- 
ground. Sorrow  has  not  touched  her,  her  womanhood  has 
not  suffered." 

Mrs.  Bullock's  fine  eyes  softened;  she  felt  profoundly 
sentimental.  This  man  made  her  wish  more  than  she  had 
ever  wished  before,  that  she  was  fifteen  years  younger. 
The  man  beside  her  knew  this,  as  he  knew  all  the  weak- 
nesses and  virtues  of  woman.  And  he  was  sorry  for  her. 
He  knew  that  to  this  spoilt  woman,  who  had  once  been 
attractive  to  men,  it  must  be  damnable  to  see  Christine 
usurping  the  stolen  glances  and  accepting  with  such  simple 


104  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

dignity  the  open  admiration  of  all  the  men  in  the  hotel. 
Her  golden  youth,  her  superb  vitality,  and  her  boyish  air 
of  activity,  never  passed  unnoticed.  The  man  whose  pulses 
were  not  quickened  by  the  coming  of  Christine  could  not  be 
called  a  man. 

When  Christine  appeared,  just  in  time  for  table-d'hote, 
she  looked  perhaps  too  feminine  to  please  her  aunt. 

"Shall  I  do,  Auntie?"  she  said  laughingly.  "I  had  to 
put  on  my  best  gown." 

"You  look  more  suitably  dressed  for  dinner,  anyhow," 
her  aunt  said  good-naturedly.  Mrs.  Bullock  was  all  smiles 
and  good  humour.  The  girl's  lateness  was  forgotten,  and 
she  certainly  was  proud  as  well  as  envious  of  her  looks. 

The  Count  found  a  seat  at  their  table,  as  he  had  done  at 
many  meals  during  the  last  few  days,  and  during  the  course 
of  the  conversation  he  cleverly  introduced  the  subject  of 
how  far  it  is  safe  to  trust  to  first  impressions  as  regards 
character. 

"Can  you  trust  to  yours,  Mrs.  Bullock?"  he  asked.  He 
only  wished  to  hear  Christine's  opinion,  which  he  hoped 
would  follow  her  aunt's. 

"I  can  generally  rely  upon  my  first  impressions,"  Mrs. 
Bullock  said.  "I  scarcely  ever  like  a  person  whom  I  have 
not  liked  from  the  very  first.  I  am  seldom  wrong." 

"Oh,  Auntie,"  Christine  said  laughingly,  "what  about 
servants?  What  jewels  they  have  all  been  at  first!" 

"Don't  be  stupid,  Christine.  Servants  aren't  people — 
well,  of  course  .  .  .  you  know  what  I  mean.  One  never 
thinks  about  them  like  that,  as  people  one  likes." 

"Can  you  trust  to  your  first  impressions,  Miss  Lovat?" 

Christine  raised  laughing  eyes  to  meet  his.  "I  am  not 
going  to  trust  to  mine  any  more,"  she  said,  "if  that  is  what 
you  want  to  know."  Her  apology  was  abject. 

His  eyes  adored  her.  She  had  confessed  herself  mis- 
taken. 

"Christine  is  seldom  right,"  Mrs.  Bullock  said.  "I  don't 
think  she  would  be  wise  to  trust  to  her  first  impressions; 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  105 

they  are  generally  unjust  and  sometimes  romantically 
absurd." 

"I  should  like  to  know  if  my  first  impressions  about  that 
beautiful  young  wife  of  the  old  American  are  right,"  Chris- 
tine said.  "Isn't  she  beautifully  pale  and  sad?  And  I 
think  she  is  bored  to  tears  and  sick  of  life  generally." 

The  Count  looked  at  the  woman.  "If  she  married  him 
for  his  wealth  I  think  she  ought  to  play  the  game  better, 
don't  you,  Mrs.  Bullock?  But  then  she  is  too  lifeless  for 
my  taste — I'm  afraid  she  doesn't  rouse  my  sympathy." 

"It  is  certainly  very  bad  form  to  let  all  the  world  see  how 
bored  you  are  with  your  husband,"  Christine  said.  "And 
how  dared  she  bring  that  old  bridegroom  to  Sicily,  of  all 
places?  She  can't  know  anything  about  the  gods  and  their 
love  of  jokes  and  sense  of  humour!  I  can  see  Pan  jeering 
at  them  and  planning  his  freakish  tricks !  But  I  don't 
suppose  she  knows  the  gods'  games  are  our  tragedies." 

The  Count's  eyes  met  the  girl's  when  she  had  finished 
speaking.  "Fools  step  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread,"  he 
said,  "and  there  are  no  fools  like  old  fools.  You  are  too 
young  to  have  lost  your  commonsense." 

Later  in  the  evening,  when  her  aunt  had  secured  two 
good  bridge-players,  Christine  fled  to  her  room.  She  was 
longing  to  be  alone  with  herself,  that  new  and  bewildering 
self  which  was  causing  her  so  many  surprises. 

She  tried  to  read,  but  did  not  succeed.  Her  thoughts 
allowed  of  no  concentration.  Only  twice  they  wandered  to 
the  brother  and  sister  in  their  little  home  up  in  the  city. 
Salvatore  she  visualised  mending  his  images,  while  Zita 
stitched  or  knitted  by  his  side. 

When  she  thought  of  Salvatore  a  sense  of  rest  came  to 
her,  her  excited  senses  were  lulled.  It  was  a  feeling  of 
spiritual  sympathy  and  understanding,  a  feeling  of  which 
she  was  scarcely  conscious.  Her  visualising  of  his  quiet 
home  and  its  innate  refinement  stilled  the  quickly-moving 
blood  in  her  veins.  To  think  of  the  Casa  Salvatore  was 
like  laying  her  hot  head  on  a  cool  linen  pillow. 


106  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 


CHAPTER  X 

UP  in  the  high  city  Zita  and  her  brother  had  spent  a 
strange  evening.  Salvatore  had  returned  to  his  cottage 
with  a  white  face ;  his  slight  body  was  trembling  with  rage. 
He  flung  himself  down  on  his  own  seat  beside  the  table.  It 
was  obvious  to  Zita  that  his  happiness  of  an  hour  ago  had 
fled  completely. 

"What  has  happened?  Have  you  left  the  Signorina? 
You  did  not  conduct  her  to  the  hotel  ?" 

"I  have  been  insulted,"  he  said,  "sent  home  like  a  dog. 
Corpo  di  Bacco !  It  is  the  first  time  I  have  borne  such  an 
indignity !" 

"Sacra  Virgine !  And  who  has  done  it?  Not  La  Prima- 
vera?  You  .  .  .  you  .  .  .  oh,  Salvatore!  You 
did  not,  you  never  could  have  .  .  ." 

"No,  no,"  he  said  quickly,  "grazie  a  Dio!  she  is  an 
angel,  she  would  not  hurt  an  animal." 

"Salvatore !"  Zita's  amazed  eyes  stared  at  him.  "Then 
it  was  .  .  ."  she  paused,  "it  was  the  Signore?" 

"Gia,  gia,  it  was  my  accomplice  in  dishonesty.  He  told 
me  to  go  home ;  he  took  my  place  beside  the  Signorina.  I 
was  not  worthy  to  walk  with  her." 

"Salvatore  mio !    Salvatore  mio !" 

"Yes,  it  has  begun,"  he  said  harshly.  "He  would  not 
have  spoken  to  me  like  that  two  months  ago.  He  must 
have  known  that  the  Signorina  had  given  me  permission  to 
accompany  her  to  her  hotel.  I  am  no  low  fellow  or  dog 
that  I  should  be  sent  home." 

"Salvatore,  he  is  courting  the  Signorina ;  he  follows  her." 

Salvatore's  eyes  searched  his  sister's  face.  "Come,"  he 
said,  "how  do  you  know?" 

Zita  did  not  answer. 

"He  stays  at  the  same  hotel,  that's  all." 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  107 

"No — I  have  seen  them  together  many  times." 

"That  is  nothing — English  ladies  go  about  alone  with 
gentlemen." 

"But  I  am  sure  that  tlje  Signore  is  courting  La  Prima- 
vera,  and  oh!  Salvatore,  I  hope  she  will  not  marry  him." 

Salvatore's  sense  of  justice  returned  to  him.  "If  the 
Signore  is  in  love  with  her,  I  can  forgive  his  insult  more 
readily.  A  man  in  love  is  not  accountable." 

"But  does  he  love  her?"  Zita  paused.  "I  must  confess 
something  to  you,  Salvatore  mio." 

"Confess?"    He  looked  at  her  anxiously. 

"This  afternoon  I  left  the  house  for  almost  an  hour.  I 
was  with  La  Primavera;  we  went  to  the  cake-shop;  we 
drank  chocolate  and  ate  cakes  together." 

Salvatore  smiled.  He  was  glad  and  proud.  The 
Signorina  had  been  friendly  with  his  sister;  his  wounded 
pride  was  healed. 

"We  met  the  Signore;  he  wished  to  join  us,  but  the 
Signorina  would  not  let  him."  Zita  laughed  mirthfully. 
"The  young  English  ladies  are  very  sincere ;  what  they  do 
not  wish,  they  do  not  pretend  to  want.  Dio  mio!  He 
was  dismissed,  Salvatore  mio,  and  the  best  of  it  was  that  he 
wanted  to  dismiss  me,  I  too  was  to  go  home." 

"He  was  envious." 

"Gia,  gia,  but  the  Signofina  had  invited  me,  she  had 
insisted.  And,  Salvatore,  I  wanted  her  to  come  back  to  the 
house,  to  keep  her  here  until  you  returned.  I  wanted  to 
give  you  a  surprise." 

"Carina !" 

"I  did,  Salvatore.  I  lied.  I  said  I  couldn't  find  the 
terracotta  box,  and  it  was  there  before  my  eyes.  The 
Blessed  Virgin  understood,  for  all  went  well;  you  came 
home  in  good  time.  Oh,  Salvatore,  how  wonderful  she  is ! 
Her  little  wrist-watch,  with  diamonds  all  round  it!  Her 
beautiful  blue  eyes  are  angelic!  Her  golden  hair,  her 
stockings  all  of  pure  silk !  She  spoke  of  you  many  times. 
When  she  laughs  a  little  dimple  comes  right  here,"  Zita 


108  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

touched  her  own  chin,  "just  here.  It  seems  to  me  as  if 
Cupid  had  left  the  shadow  of  his  first  kiss  on  her  chin." 

"Silenzio,  carina  mia!" 

"The  best  part  of  it  all  was  her  dismissal  of  the  Signore." 
Suddenly  Zita's  voice  broke ;  she  was  crying,  big  tears  fell 
from  her  eyes.  "I  wish  they  were  not  there,"  she  sobbed 
as  she  kicked  the  floor  with  her  foot. 

"They  are  there,"  Salvatore  said,  "they  are  there.  He 
would  not  have  spoken  to  me  one  month  ago  in  the  way  he 
did  this  evening  if  they  were  not  there.  His  love  for  the 
Signorina  is  no  excuse.  He  wished  to  rule.  You  are  right 
— he  is  going  to  use  me." 

"I  never  trusted  him,  Salvatore." 

"No,  you  never  did,"  he  spoke  almost  sharply.  "But 
perhaps  I  am  exaggerating;  I  was  enjoying  myself." 

"All  things  have  a  meaning;  time  will  explain  all." 
Zita  spoke  ponderingly. 

"If  he  cannot  sell  them  soon,  I  shall  give  them  up  to  the 
authorities." 

"Why  not  give  them  up  now?  Oh,  do,  and  let  us  be 
free!"  " 

"The  Signore  has  lent  me  some  lire  on  them;  I  needed 
money  for  my  work ;  it  cannot  wait  indefinitely." 

"Sacramento!  He  is  a  fox,  he  knew  how  to  tie  your 
hands." 

"If  my  work  is  successful,  nothing  will  matter,  Zita.  We 
shall  forget  this."  He  tried  to  speak  cheerfully. 

"Our  father  spent  all  his  money  on  the  same  idea,  Salva- 
tore, and  he  died  poor.  Our  mother  had  to  work  like  a 
peasant ;  we  live  here  like  peasants." 

Salvatore  put  his  hands  to  his  head  as  if  her  words  hurt 
him.  "Don't!  Zita  mia,  don't  destroy  my  hope!  I  must 
go  to  Rome." 

Walls  have  ears,  windows  have  eyes !  Bats  carry  secrets ! 
So  Salvatore  never  mentioned  the  exact  nature  of  his 
work. 

Zita  bent  over  him.     "It  is  the  Signore  who  robs  me  of 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  109 

my  trust.  1  only  fear  that  you  will  be  the  worker  and  that 
he  will  reap  the  gain." 

"I  have  never  told  him !  I  trust  no-one  but  you.  I  did 
not  distrust  the  Signore;  but,"  he  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"You  do  trust  me?" 

He  put  his  arm  round  her.  "We  are  of  one  flesh,  carina." 

"Does  he  know  that  I  saw  the  urns  brought  to  the 
house?  Am  I  also  an  accomplice?" 

"Gia,  gia.    I  did  not  tell  him,  but  he  knows." 

Zita  shivered.  "He  will  order  me  as  he  ordered  you!" 
Her  hands  were  tightly  clasped.  "I  hate  him,  Salvatore,  I 
hate  him  and  fear  him." 

"What  have  you  to  fear?" 

"The  unknown,  Salvatore,  the  man's  cruel  power." 

"Dio  mio !  You  are  so  easily  excited.  After  all,  he  only 
told  me  that  I  could  return  to  my  own  house.  If  I  had  not 
been  so  happy  with  the  Signorina  I  should  not  have  noticed 
anything  in  his  manner.  I  was  jealous." 

Zita  shook  her  head.  "I  wish  La  Primavera  had  refused 
his  company  as  she  refused  it  when  she  was  with  me.  I 
could  have  knelt  at  her  feet." 

"Bambina  mia,  she  has  won  your  heart." 

"She  is  so  graziosa.  She  was  quite  a  friend  to  me,  I 
who  wear  no  hat  on  my  head  and  have  but  two  chairs  in  my 
house."  Zita's  eyes  were  mirthful.  "I  was  her  friend,  her 
honoured  guest.  I  could  have  eaten  her,  Salvatore;  the 
sweet  cakes  were  not  so  tempting  as  her  skin — it  is  all  pink. 
Dio  mio !  how  dark  I  am !"  Zita  sighed.  "How  splendid 
it  must  be  to  carry  about  gold  and  silver  in  a  little  purse 
made  of  gold!  And  her  bracelet,  Salvatore — I  counted 
fourteen  large  pearls,  each  one  like  a  tear-drop.  Her  petti- 
coat was  much  grander  than  her  muslin  dress;  and  her 
handkerchief,  it  was  so  fine  that  she  put  it  into  the  palm  of 
her  hand  under  her  big  white  glove.  Dio  mio !  I  laughed 
when  I  saw  her  pull  it  out.  Outwardly  she  is  so  quiet  and 
simple;  inside  she  is  like  the  King's  daughter."  Zita's 
rhapsody  left  her  breathless. 


110  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

Salvatore  rose  from  her  seat.  "I  must  work.  Stop 
chattering,  carina."  He  pretended  to  be  cross ;  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  his  provoked  senses  could  stand  the  girl's  descrip- 
tion of  Christine  no  longer.  He  knew  that  he  was  madly 
in  love  with  La  Primavera,  that  her  image  had  filled  his 
thoughts  for  days ;  but  he  also  knew  that  his  love  was  hope- 
less. Only  work  could  help  him.  Listening  to  his  sister 
only  increased  his  hunger. 

The  Signorina  was  as  far  removed  from  his  daily  life  as 
earth  is  from  Heaven.  She  was  a  tourist  in  Sicily,  a  chance 
patron  of  his  wares.  When  she  returned  to  England  she 
would  not  even  remember  his  existence. 

The  hopelessness  of  his  love  exalted  it  to  a  footing  of 
sanctity.  Even  if  one  day  he  should  become  famous,  if  his 
experiment  should  prove  successful,  it  would  not  help 
matters,  for  a  girl  so  beautiful  and  wealthy  would  be  mar- 
ried as  soon  as  she  was  of  an  age.  Salvatore  imagined 
that  Christine  was  about  the  same  age  as  his  sister.  She 
was  a  girl  in  every  sense  of  the  word. 


CHAPTER  XI 

ON  Sunday  morning  Zita  went  to  mass  with  a  neighbour 
and  her  daughter,  a  girl  of  her  own  age  whose  heavy  bust 
would  have  better  adorned  a  matron  of  forty-five.  She  was 
not  prepossessing.  Her  complexion  was  heavy,  her  dark 
eyes  were  small  and  suspicious,  her  black  hair  fuzzy;  her 
type  was  Saracen. 

As  she  plodded  along  by  her  mother's  side,  her  feet, 
which  were  cramped  into  very  yellow  kid  boots  with  large 
pearl  buttons,  hurt.  She  felt  so  much  grander  than  Zita 
that  she  had  no  envy  in  her  heart  for  the  girl's  beauty.  If 
beauty  is  married  in  the  cradle,  money  is  seldom  an  old 
maid ;  a  dowry  would  gild  her  plain  face. 

Each  Sunday  morning  she  went  to  mass  with  her  parents 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  111 

in  the  same  sedate  fashion,  to  an  ancient  church,  tucked 
away  in  a  corner ;  a  church  of  so  humble  an  order  that  the 
peasants  living  near  it  take  their  own  rush-seated  chairs 
with  them,  an  old  custom  which  saves  the  soldi  charged  for 
the  church  chairs. 

Arrived  at  the  piazza  in  front  of  the  church,  Signora 
Aldo  was  openly  greeting  her  friends ;  her  daughter  was 
demurely  answering  secret  glances  from  aspiring  swains. 
Country  donkeys  and  mules  were  lying  on  the  ground  or 
standing  close  to  the  church,  with  their  reins  attached  to 
iron  rings  fixed  in  the  wall.  On  festal  Sundays  a  market 
was  held  in  the  square  and  portable  shops  surrounded  it ;  on 
this  Sunday  there  was  only  a  rosary  stall  kept  by  a  very 
old  woman. 

Just  at  the  moment  when  Signora  Aldo  and  Nina  were 
pushing  back  the  heavy  leather  curtain  to  enter  the  church, 
Zita,  who  was  behind  them,  felt  a  thin  roll  of  paper  being 
thrust  into  her  hand.  Her  heart  beat  furiously,  as  her 
mind  leapt  to  the  correct  conclusion.  It  was  her  nameless 
deliverer ;  he  must  be  behind  her. 

When  the  leather  curtain  had  swung  back  and  she  was 
inside  the  building,  she  looked  nervously  round.  He  was 
in  front  of  her,  to  all  appearances  totally  unconscious  of 
her  presence.  This  was  not  her  church;  she  had  not  told 
him  that  she  ever  went  to  it.  Her  own  church  was  St. 
Biagio  on  the  Rupe  Atenea,  a  church  made  out  of  the  cells 
of  the  temples  of  Ceres  and  Proserpine. 

When  Zita  knelt  in  prayer  her  attitude  was  so  devo- 
tional that  no-one  could  have  imagined  that  confusion 
reigned  in  her  heart.  Her  deliverer  had  followed  her;  he 
must  have  watched  her  leave  her  house. 

With  Nina's  sly  eyes  always  watching,  she  had  no  chance 
of  unfolding  the  note  during  service.  The  youth,  accord- 
ing to  the  custom  of  the  humble  congregation,  had  seated 
himself  on  the  male  side  of  the  aisle.  Even  in  God's  House 
sex  is  not  fogotten. 

Zita's  senses  were  in  no  condition  for  prayers.     Though 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

her  eyes  appeared  reverntly  fixed  on  her  prayer-book,  her 
thoughts  were  romantically  roaming.  The  youth  knew  it, 
For  the  language  of  the  senses  no  wireless  installation  is 
necessary.  Zita  and  her  lover  talked  to  each  other  through- 
out the  service ;  they  said  the  things  which  words  were  only 
invented  to  hide.  The  youth  knew  that  his  request  had 
been  granted. 

He  was  a  goodly  youth,  tall  and  strong  and  clean- 
limbed. While  Zita  knelt  at  prayer  she  could  hear  him 
playing  his  reed  pipe;  the  air  from  "Rigoletto"  was  far 
clearer  in  her  ears  than  the  droning  of  the  priest's  Latin. 
The  high  altar,  with  its  cheap  furnishings,  had  vanished; 
the  roof  of  the  church  had  lifted.  She  saw  the  sunlight 
streaming  over  the  mountains,  the  deep  shadows  resting  on 
the  plain.  She  saw  the  youth's  blue-grey  eyes  laughing 
back  into  hers  as  he  said,  "If  you  do  not  sing,  what  noise 
was  that  you  were  making  while  I  was  playing?  I  call  it 
singing." 

She  took  another  long  look  at  him,  while  Nina  was  fold- 
ing up  her  flower-bordered  handkerchief. 

"Surely  Salvatore  will  approve?  Surely  this  man  is  not 
like  the  Signore?" 

When  the  service  was  over  and  the  soldi  had  been  col- 
lected for  the  seats,  the  scuffling  of  feet  and  the  scratching 
of  the  chairs  on  the  lava-paved  floor  began.  The  dispers- 
ing of  the  congregation  was  to  Zita  maddeningly  slow. 
The  youth  had  left  the  church.  Zita  and  Nina  followed 
closely  behind  Signora  Aldo,  who  was  pushing  her  large 
person  past  some  worshippers  who  had  come  in  for  the 
second  Mass. 

When  at  last  they  stood  in  the  sunlight,  Zita  caught  the 
swift  glance  of  her  deliverer,  who  was  untying  the  reins 
of  his  mule  from  the  iron  ring.  Her  glance  took  the  youth 
in  a  transport  of  delight  back  to  his  home  in  the  country. 
Up  steep  gullies  and  over  lone  mountain  tracks  Zita's  smile 
brought  songs  to  his  lips  and  happiness  to  his  heart.  He 
envied  no  man.  When  hope  runs  high  a  long  journey  is 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  113 

short.  Love  knows  no  time.  It  is  good  to  be  young. 
While  he  rode  on  his  nimble-footed  steed  his  heart  fed  on 
Zita's  beauty.  Not  once  did  he  urge  his  mule  on  with  the 
long-drawn-out  Sicilian  cry  of  "Amonine!  Amonine!" 

Such  is  love  in  Sicily,  such  is  love  in  the  Laughing  Land, 
where  truth  is  always  stranger  than  fiction. 


CHAPTER  XII 

WHEN  Zita  was  at  last  able  to  read  her  circumspect  little 
letter  a  flood  of  happiness  bewildered  her.  He  was  honour- 
able, he  was  trustworthy;  he  asked  nothing  of  her  which 
need  cause  her  the  least  shame  or  secrecy. 

"Onorevole  Signorina,"  it  began,  "I  have  waited.  I 
can  see  no  other  way,  so  if  you  will  permit  me,  I  will  call 
upon  your  brother  and  tell  him  that  I  have  seen  you  and 
that  I  desire  to  pay  my  respects.  With  your  consent  I  will 
take  this  step,  which  I  will  consider  granted  if  you  will 
sprinkle  some  white  sand  on  your  front  doorstep  to-morrow 
evening  before  six  o'clock.  May  the  good  God  bless  you 
and  favour  my  entreaty,  gentle  Signorina.  Until  death, 
yours  respectfully  and  devotedly,  Sardo  Fontana." 

The  request  made  Zita  quiver  like  a  frightened  wren. 
Certainly  he  was  a  bold  and  unconventional  lover,  but  he 
was  honourable  and  her  awful  episode  with  the  Signore  had 
not  made  him  think  lightly  of  her !  She  could  rely  on  his 
discretion.  He  would  convey  the  impression  to  Salvatore 
that  he  had  seen  her  at  Mass  and  had  done  as  all  Sicilians 
do  when  they  are  in  love — watched  for  her  coming  and 
going  after  he  had  discovered  her  daily  routine. 

When  she  entered  the  cottage,  Salvatore  was  still  seated 
where  she  had  left  him  at  the  table.  His  face  was  forlorn, 
his  eyes  wretched.  Zita  expressed  her  surprise. 

"Did  La  Primavera  not  come?"  Her  voice  was  sympa- 
thetic. "Dio  mio,  I  was  sure  she  would !" 


114  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

"No,  I  have  been  alone." 

"She  is  with  the  Signore !"  Zita  stamped  her  foot  with 
rage. 

"Her  aunt  may  have  prevented  her  ...  it  was  only 
to  be  if  she  could  get  away ;  her  aunt  dislikes  all  museums." 

"It  is  the  Signore,  he  has  prevented  her !  Oh,  Salvatore, 
shall  we  never  see  her  again?" 

"Spero  di  si,  Zita  mia." 

"I  don't  think  we  shall.  He  is  jealous;  he  will  prevent 
it." 

"Silenzio!  You  forget!  The  Signorina  is  of  the  Sig- 
nore's  position ;  I  am  only  a  poor  workman." 

"You  are  an  artist,  she  herself  said  so.  She  knows  we 
are  poor,  but  who  could  fail  to  see  that  fine  blood  runs  in 
your  veins?  Everyone  knows  that  you  are  a  Mazzini." 

"Through  his  influence  I  receive  all  that  we  put  in  our 
mouths.  If  he  no  longer  needs  my  services  .  .  ." 
Salvatore  threw  back  his  head. 

"He  will  always  require  it.  Who  is  there  to  fill  your 
place?  You  are  too  humble." 

"Zita,  mia,  no-one  in  this  world  is  essential.  Life  wil] 
teach  you  that." 

"You  are  essential  to  me,  Salvatore.  Without  you  1 
should  die."  Would  the  youth  on  his  mule  have  ceased  his 
singing  if  he  had  heard  her  remark  ?  * 

"Men  die  and  worms  eat  them,  but  it  is  not  for  love. 
The  great  English  Shakespeare  said  that;  it  is  true." 

"But  he  did  not  know  me,  Salvatore — he  was  English. 
He  did  not  know  that  in  Sicily  love  can  kill.  What  poor 
thin  love  he  knew !  In  our  country  love  is  not  mixed  with 
water !" 

He  looked  at  her  quickly,  as  though  he  had  suddenly 
realised  the  fact,  a  strange  fact  to  Salvatore,  that  his  baby 
sister  was  now  a  woman. 

"I  must  get  a  good  husband  for  you,  carina.  You  are 
of  a  marriageable  age — I  am  forgetting  my  duty,"  he 
laughed.  "Who  is  there  that  you  fancy?  Remember,  you 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  115 

have  no  dowry,  you  cannot  pick  and  choose.  If  you  had  a 
nice  fortune  like  Nina  Aldo  what  a  fine  match  you  could 
make,  carina!" 

Zita  looked  embarrassed.  "I'm  glad  I'm  poor;  I'm  not 
envious  of  black-browed  Nina  with  her  ugly  feet.  I  do  not 
wish  to  leave  you." 

"Santo  Dio !  But  a  girl  must  marry.  And  you  are  so 
pretty,  that  some  fine  young  fellow  may  forget  that  you 
are  dowerless.  Who  knows?  Whom  the  gods  love,  for- 
tune smiles  on." 

"He  need  not  trouble,  Salvatore.  And  I  will  not  marry 
a  dull  old  man  just  because  I  am  poor,  not  if  I  have  to 
become  a  licensed  beggar  at  the  church  door."  Zita's  pride 
was  up  in  arms. 

"Perhaps  you  will  be  married  for  your  money,  carina. 
Every  day  it  seems  more  likely;  it  is  only  money  I  need." 

"I  will  be  married  for  myself  alone,  Salvatore,  or  not  at 
all." 

"You  have  been  reading  English  romances  again,"  he 
said.  "English  love-stories  give  you  these  impossible 
ideas.  What  is  the  last  called?" 

Zita  mentioned  the  name  of  one  of  Marie  Correlli's 
novels,  while  she  wondered  what  Salvatore  would  have  to 
say,  when  he  discovered  that  a  handsome,  well-off  young 
man  was  only  waiting  for  an  opportunity  to  ask  him  for 
her  hand  in  marriage.  The  mention  of  the  book  saved 
her  further  embarrassment.  It  never  occurred  to  her  that 
supposing  she  married  her  lover,  she  would  no  longer  be 
able  to  share  her  old  life  with  Salvatore.  The  fine  patri- 
archal custom  was  familiar  to  her;  it  is  greatly  practised 
in  Sicily.  Salvatore  stood  to  her  in  "loco  parentis";  he 
would  naturally  make  his  home  with  her  when  she  was 
married.  The  system  is  economical  and  labour-saving. 


116  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  next  evening  at  about  half-past  five  o'clock  when  it 
was  drawing  near  the  time  for  Zita  to  sprinkle  the  white 
sand  on  her  doorstep,  the  Signore  appeared  at  the  cottage. 
Salvatore  had  not  returned  from  his  day's  work.  When 
she  saw  her  betrayer  standing  at  her  door,  Zita's  blood 
turned  cold  in  her  veins.  There  was  a  new  expression  in 
his  eyes.  She  waited  for  him  to  speak. 

"Permit  me  to  wait  here  for  your  brother,  if  he  has  not 
yet  returned."  He  spoke  respectfully  and  gently;  she 
could  not  refuse  his  request.  "I  have  something  of  im- 
portance to  tell  him." 

"Please  to  enter,  Signore."  Zita  made  way  for  him  to 
cross  her  doorstep;  she  had  tried  to  block  the  entrance. 

When  he  was  in  the  cottage,  he  looked  meaningly  at  the 
floor.  "You  guard  your  house  very  carefully,  Zita  mia! 
I  seldom  see  you  out  of  doors. 

"Si,  Signore." 

Again  he  looked  at  the  floor  significantly.  "Are  they 
there?  Did  they  arrive  safely?" 

"Si,  si,  Signore."  Zita  had  edged  nearer  to  the  door, 
which  the  Signore  had  shut  behind  him. 

He  crossed  the  room  and  stood  close  to  the  girl ;  his 
eyes  held  hers.  "Salvatore  has  made  you  his  little  watch- 
dog?" 

Zita  did  not  answer. 

The  Signore  whispered  something  in  her  ear;  he  almost 
hissed  the  words.  Then  he  added  aloud,  "You  tricked 
and  fooled  me,  Zita,  because  you  were  afraid  of  Salvatore. 
Now  you  know  that  you  need  not  have  been,  that  he  must 
hold  his  tongue." 

Zita  was  terrified  but  she  said  with  dignity.  "You 
mean,  Signore,  that  he  is  now  in  your  hands,  that  he  will 
not  dare  to  avenge  his  sister's  honour.  It  is  a  lie!  You 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  117 

are  his  accomplice,  not  his  master,  and  I  will  tell  the  Sig- 
norina  Lovat.  She  will  hate  you." 

Her  words  brought  her  to  his  arms,  her  body  crushed 
helplessly  to  his  breast,  her  face  bruised  against  the  but- 
tons of  his  waistcoat.  Yet  her  strength  was  like  the 
strength  of  a  panther;  it  delighted  her  hunter. 

"Little  devil!"  he  said  breathlessly.  "You  are  jealous 
and  afraid  to  take  what  you  long  to  receive.  And  now 
you  would  destroy  the  Signorina's  happiness!"  He  held 
her  at  arm's  length  and  stared  into  her  eyes.  "Curse 
your  intelligence,"  he  said.  "You  think  to  be  able  to 
rob  me  twice!"  To  show  her  how  mistaken  she  was  he 
held  her  still  more  closely  to  him.  Her  breasts  were 
crushed  and  sore.  It  seemed  to  the  girl  that  the  fallen 
Telamon  had  come  to  life;  she  was  more  helpless  in  his 
arms  than  an  infant  at  its  mother's  breast.  He  raised 
her  face  to  his.  "Kiss  my  lips,"  he  said;  "kiss  them." 

To  Zita  the  world  had  suddenly  become  hell,  the  devil 
was  filling  her  cottage.  If  she  did  not  kiss  him  at  his 
bidding,  what  else  would  he  take  from  her?  She  dared  not 
cry  out,  for  the  neighbours  would  give  small  credit  to  her 
purity  if  they  were  to  see  her  in  the  Signore's  arms. 

A  thousand  fears  and  terrors  stormed  her  mind.  The 
Signore's  lips  were  still  close  to  hers. 

"Kiss  me,  Zita,"  he  said  again,  "kiss  me  and  swear 
that  you  will  never  speak  to  the  Signorina  again."  His 
eyes  threatened  her  with  a  heavier  punishment.  "Kiss 
me,"  he  said  again,  more  wooingly,  "and  make  friends. 
The  Signorina  will  not  interfere  with  us,  nothing  need 
interfere;  no-one  need  know." 

Zita's  horrified  eyes  questioned  him. 

'It  would  be  wiser,"  he  said,  encouragingly.  "Do  as  I 
tell  you.  Salvatore's  secret  will  be  safe;  I  will  guard  his 
honour." 

"And  my  honour,  Signore?" 

"Yours?"  he  said.  "Your  honour  already  lies  in  my 
hands.  Think,  pretty  Zita,  whose  story  will  be  believed, 


118  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

yours  or  mine?  You  went  with  me  to  Porto  Empedocle, 
that  is  sufficient.  Even  the  English  Signorina  is  not 
without  jealousy." 

"I  am  to  buy  my  brother's  safety?"  Zita  spoke  quietly. 
"You  wish  to  be  my  lover  and  I  am  not  to  tell  the  Signo- 
rina anything?  I  am  to  be  your  mistress  until  she  becomes 
your  wife  .  .  .  and  what  then?"  The  girl's  face  was 
pale,  but  all  trace  of  fear  had  left  it.  The  man's 
arms  had  crushed  her  until  her  body  felt  tired  and 
broken. 

"Marriage  is  one  thing;  a  lover  is  another."  He 
laughed,  caressingly.  "Madonnina,  which  do  you  prefer?" 

"I  will  have  both,"  she  said  quietly,  "or  neither." 

"Sacramento!"  he  cried.  "But  you  will  have  some- 
thing !  You  made  a  fool  of  me  once,  you  little  witch,  or  so 
you  thought,  but  you  shall  pay  for  it.  Come,  stop  your 
nonsense  and  pretences." 

He  lifted  her  from  the  floor  and  took  her  in  his  arms. 
Salvatore's  couch  was  in  the  corner  of  the  room.  As  he 
carried  her  to  it,  a  superhuman  strength  came  to  Zita,  she 
became  a  tiger  cat.  Her  sharp  teeth  dug  into  his  hands, 
she  spat  into  his  eyes,  so  neatly  that  he  had  to  stand  still 
and  grapple  with  her.  Suddenly  the  house  door  opened 
and  Salvatore  entered  the  room. 

For  a  moment  there  was  an  awful  silence  while  the  two 
men  faced  each  other.  The  girl  was  weeping  on  the  couch. 
The  Signore  smiled,  the  situation  was  a  joke,  easily  ex- 
plained. Salvatore  would  not  make  a  fuss. 

"Your  sister  was  threatening  me  with  blackmail,"  he 
said  lightly.  "She  is  jealous,  poor  child,  of  the  Signorina 
Lovat.  I  was  making  a  pretence  of  punishing  her;  she 
really  deserves  a  whipping." 

Zita's  crying  became  hysterical. 

"I  have  paid  her  a  pretty  compliment  now  and  again,  I 
admit,  but  this  outburst  is  foolish.  She  is  determined  to 
tell  the  Signorina  that  I  have  been  of  use  to  you,"  he 
looked  at  the  floor  significantly.  "If  I  pay  attention  to 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  119 

the  Signorina  Lovat  she  will  take  revenge  that  way.  You 
will,  I  know,  restore  her  to  reason,  calm  her."  He  paused. 

"You  are  a  liar !"  Salvatore  replied.  "A  damned  liar !" 
He  spoke  quietly,  but  his  whole  being  was  crying  out  for 
the  man's  blood. 

"I  am  your  master,  young  man ;  remember  to  whom  you 
are  speaking!" 

"You  are  a  liar  and  a  scoundrel !  I  know  only  too  well 
the  man  I  am  speaking  to."  Salvatore  caught  hold  of  his 
arm. 

"Well,  then,  if  you  doubt  me,  ask  your  sister,  ask  her  if 
she  has  not  vowed  that  she  will  tell  your  secret  to  the 
Signorina  Lovat." 

Zita  sprang  to  her  feet ;  she  faced  Salvatore  fearlessly. 
As  he  looked  into  her  terrified  eyes  he  asked  himself  if  it 
were  possible  that  she  had  seen  more  of  the  Signore  than 
he  knew?  Did  she  really  care  for  him? 

"Give  the  lie  to  the  Signore's  foul  words,  Zita.  Are 
these  vile  accusations  true?  Did  you  threaten  him?" 

There  was  a  heavy  silence  for  a  moment  and  then  the 
girl  said  slowly,  "Yes,  Salvatore,  I  threatened  him,  I  spat 
in  his  eyes  and  I  will  do  it  again  if  he  dares  to  enter  your 
house." 

Salvatore  was  too  amazed  and  horrified  to  say  more  than 
"Sorella  mia!  Sorella  mia!" 

"Listen,  Salvatore,  he  has  begged  me  to  love  him,  to 
deceive  you;  and  he  was  to  deceive  the  Signorina." 

Salvatore  sprang  at  the  Count ;  he  could  have  strangled 
him;  if  he  had  been  carrying  his  revolver  he  would  have 
shot  him.  Zita's  cry  stopped  him. 

"No,  no,  Salvatore,  leave  him.  You  need  not  kill  him. 
He  thinks  the  urns  have  tied  both  our  hands,  but  he  is 
mistaken !  Because  I  refused  what  he  asked  he  says  I  am 
jealous,  hysterical.  He  knows  your  work  depends  on  him; 
let  him  see  that  we  prefer  starvation." 

Salvatore  never  doubted  his  sister's  words.  Instinct  told 
him  that  she  was  speaking  fearlessly  and  truthfully.  But 


120  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

he  knew  that  it  would  be  foolish  and  useless  to  attempt  at 
the  present  moment  to  take  his  revenge.  The  Signore  was 
a  much  more  powerfully  built  man  than  himself  and  he 
always  carried  a  revolver;  he  was  a  reputed  shot.  Salva- 
tore  must  wait;  but  a  Mazzini  can  always  wait. 

Besides,  there  was  Zita  to  be  thought  of.  If  he  put  him  • 
self  in  the  hands  of  the  law,  who  would  support  her?  As 
these  thoughts  passed  rapidly  through  his  mind  his  grasp 
on  the  Signore's  arm  slackened;  the  murderous  expression 
on  his  face  changed — only  slightly,  it  is  true,  but  the  Sig- 
nore, with  his  quick  eyes  and  senses,  felt  the  subtle 
change. 

When  Salvatore's  hand  left  his  arm,  he  said  blandly — 
he  had  adopted  a  bland  tone  throughout — "It  is  a  pity 
that  all  this  should  have  happened  to-day,  for  I  came  to 
tell  you  .  .  ."  He  paused  and  looked  at  the  ground. 

Salvatore  was  silent.  The  Signore's  looks  were  sig- 
nificant. 

"This  evening,"  he  went  on,  "two  American  gentlemen 
will  come  to  se  your  urns.  They  do  not  know,  of  course, 
that  they  are  stolen  goods.  They  can  pay  a  fancy  price." 
As  he  finished  speaking,  he  turned  to  Zita.  "You  need  not 
be  a  house-dog  any  longer,  foolish  child,  if  the  urns  please 
the  American.  He  seems  keen  about  them." 

Salvatore's  anger  deepened.  The  Signore's  words  were 
meant  to  wound. 

"They  will  he  here  at  nine  o'clock,"  the  Signore  said. 
He  waited  for  Salvatore  to  speak.  As  he  did  not,  he  went 
on  with  his  instructions.  "You  will  arrange  how  they  are 
to  be  conveyed  down  to  his  yacht,  which  will  be  in  the  har- 
bour in  the  morning." 

Every  word  maddened  Salvatore.  He  longed  to  tell 
the  man  to  leave  his  house,  to  refuse  to  listen  to  his  orders 
or  to  carry  out  the  transaction,  but  the  chains  of  slavery 
held  him.  He  was  tongue-tied.  The  urns  were  in  his 
house ;  the  fact  had  to  be  faced,  and  the  urns  disposed  of. 

"Of  course  you  will  be  responsible  for  the  money,  which 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

the  American  will  hand  over  to  you  when  the  urns  are  on 
the  yacht." 

"Your  share  as  well  as  my  own?"  The  words  came 
from  Salvatore's  lips  like  pistol-shots. 

"Yes.  I  have  only  advised  him  to  look  at  the  urns ;  he 
knows  nothing  about  them,  or  how  you  got  them." 

"Then  you  are  an  honest  man  in  his  eyes?  He  does  not 
know  you!"  Salvatore  hissed  the  words. 

"Salvatore  Mazzini,  do  you  wish  to  continue  your  work 
at  the  farm  ?  If  you  do,  hold  your  tongue.  And  I  advise 
you  to  make  your  foolish  sister  apologise." 

Salvatore  threw  back  his  head.  "I  take  no  more  food 
for  my  stomach  from  your  hands !  I  know  you  now  for 
what  you  are,  a  lying  Croat!  If  it  were  not  for  Zita,  I 
would  match  myself  against  you  this  moment."  His  grip 
on  the  Signore's  arm  tightened. 

Zita  tried  to  calm  him.  "It  is  Government  work,  Salva- 
tore, the  Signore  is  paid  by  the  Government.  His  money 
does  not  feed  us." 

Salvatore  threw  off  her  restraining  hand  and  sprang  to 
the  door.  As  he  opened  it  wide  he  cried  out,  "Get  out! 
Get  out,  and  never  let  your  breath  pollute  this  house  again ! 
My  father's  son  will  not  forget  the  insult  you  have  offered 
to  his  daughter." 

The  Signore  moved  slowly  to  the  door.  He  only 
laughed  as  though  he  thought  they  were  foolish,  angry 
children,  excitable  Sicilians.  He  fully  believed  that  Sal- 
vatore would  appear  at  the  farm  next  morning  with  his 
pick  and  spade.  Sleep  would  cool  his  emotions. 

As  he  stepped  out  into  the  street,  he  said  to  him,  "You 
can  bring  the  money  to  the  farm  when  you  have  recovered 
your  temper.  I  will  trust  you."  His  voice  implied  great 
consideration. 

When  the  house  door  was  shut,  Salvatore  seized  his  sister 
by  the  arms.  "Tell  me,"  he  cried,  "don't  be  afraid,  tell 
me  the  truth.  Should  I  have  killed  him?  Must  I  kill 
him?" 


122  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

Zita  clung  to  him.  "No,  no,  you  saved  me,  Salvatore! 
You  saved  me!  You  need  not  kill  him."  She  was 
trembling.  Salvatore  felt  her  body  growing  limp  in  his 
arms  as  he  held  her  to  him.  Now  that  the  Signore  was  out 
of  her  presence  her  nerve  was  giving  way. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  sorella  mia.  He  will  not  return.  I 
will  teach  him  who  will  laugh  the  longest." 

"Oh,  Salvatore,  if  you  hadn't  come!  If  you  hadn't 
come !" 

Zita  was  sobbing  and  shaking.  Salvatore  did  his  best  to 
calm  her  and  she  found  comfort  and  assurance  in  his 
enfolding  arms.  When  her  trembling  grew  less  he  said: 

"How  long  had  the  villain  been  here,  Zita  mia?" 

"Almost  twenty  minutes,  I  think."  She  started  in  his 
arms  and  tried  to  free  herself;  her  trembling  returned. 
"What  time  is  it  now?"  she  asked  miserably. 

Salvatore  heard  despair  in  her  voice.  As  he  told 
her  that  it  was  just  six  o'clock  her  head  fell  on  his 
shoulder. 

"It  is  too  late,  too  late,  too  late,  Salvatore  mio !"  Her 
words  were  a  moan. 

Salvatore  laughed  at  her  distress ;  she  seemed  hysterical. 

"Why,  bambina,  it  does  not  matter — if  it  is  too  late  to 
kindle  the  carbon  we  can  eat  cipolli."  He  sighed.  "This 
day  week  we  shall  have  no  carbon  to  burn,  Zita  mia.  Don't 
make  yourself  unhappy  over  my  supper." 

Zita  raised  tear-washed  eyes.  She  had  not  thought  of 
kindling  the  carbon;  their  supper  was  forgotten.  What 
she  had  suddenly  remembered  was  that  it  was  six  o'clock 
and  that  Sardo  Fontana  would  have  passed  and  found  no 
sand  on  her  doorstep.  Yes,  he  must  have  passed.  He 
would  be  on  his  way  home  now,  believing  that  she  was, 
after  all,  only  a  light  girl,  that  she  had  tricked  and  fooled 
him! 

What  happened  was  this.  Sardo  Fontana,  after  leav- 
ing* his  mule  at  the  entrance  of  the  town,  had  walked 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  123 

quickly  up  the  long  street.  He  knew  where  Zita  lived; 
Casa  Salvatore  was  easily  found. 

As  he  strode  along  his  heart  was  light  with  hope,  for  love 
disperses  all  fears,  and  he  had  a  clean  record  to  give  Salva- 
tore and  a  goodly  inheritance  to  offer  his  wife.  All  was 
right  with  the  world.  His  thoughts  danced  round  the 
girl's  image.  One  moment  he  saw  her  as  his  wife,  at  home 
in  her  place  as  the  mistress  of  his  house,  her  first-born  child 
at  her  breast.  The  next  minute  she  was  shyly  accepting  his 
first  kiss,  which  would  of  course  be  after  their  marriage. 
The  next  minute  she  was  signing  her  name  as  a  bride  before 
the  Sindaco.  How  beautiful  Zita  Fontana  sounded  to  his 
ears !  He  had  of  course  discovered  her  name. 

Now  they  were  on  their  primo  mese  di  matriminio — 
honeymoon.  He  could  see  her  lovely  eyes  and  laughing 
lips,  expressing  their  wonder  at  the  sights  of  a  great  city, 
Naples.  His  thoughts  were  a  lover's,  but  a  lover  who  re- 
spects as  well  as  loves  the  woman  he  desires.  She  was  to 
be  his  wife,  the  mother  of  his  children;  his  thoughts  did 
no  dishonour  to  her  chastity.  For  a  mistress,  however 
much  adored,  a  man  has  other  thoughts!  In  the  South 
they  are  not  confounded. 

Sardo  disliked  the  town ;  he  was  country  bred ;  his  fath- 
er's ancestors  had  lived  on  the  same  farm  for  many  centu- 
ries. A  degree  of  pity  for  a  girl  like  Zita,  who  was  com- 
pelled to  live  in  the  ugly,  noisy  street,  cast  a  temporary 
cloud  over  the  brilliance  of  his  world.  He  would  take  her 
away,  away  from  it  all,  from  the  dust  and  squalor  and 
vulgarity  of  modern  Girgenti.  He  hated  the  upstart 
youths  who  paraded  the  streets  after  working  hours  to 
show  off  their  cheap  German  clothes  and  flashy  yellow 
boots  and  stared  at  the  women  with  bold  eyes.  He  hated 
the  girls  who  covered  their  fine  heads  of  hair  with  ridicu- 
lous hats  and  stuffed  their  fat  figures  into  ill-fitting 
modern  clothes. 

Sardo  Fontana  was  his  own  master.  He  had  inherited 
his  farm  from  an  uncle  who  had  also  made  money  in  the 


124  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

Argentine.  Zita  would  have  no  mother-in-law,  which 
meant  that  during  their  early  married  life  he  could  spoil 
her  and  spend  as  much  money  on  her  as  he  chose.  Happy 
Zita! 

As  he  approached  her  house  he  looked  around.  He  was 
in  luck;  no-one  was  in  sight.  His  heart  was  beating  ex- 
citedly. He  felt  sure  that  inside  the  little  house  Zita  was 
conscious  that  he  was  outside.  At  the  door  he  stopped. 

Was  he  blind?  There  was  no  sand  on  the  step — not  a 
single  speck. 

He  stood  still.  In  a  moment  the  brightness  of  his  world 
changed  to  blackness.  No,  there  was  no  sand;  there  was 
no  acceptance.  Love  always  finds  a  way,  he  knew  that. 
Zita  could  have  managed  to  find  time  and  the  means  if  she 
had  wished  to.  It  was  such  a  simple  matter,  such  an  every- 
day matter.  But  the  step  was  white  and  sandless.  Obvi- 
ously she  had  refused  his  request. 

He  examined  the  windows  opposite.  No  eyes  were  look- 
ing, no  jealousies  were  lifted;  the  street  was  empty.  He 
knelt  on  the  step  and  put  his  ear  to  the  door;  he  heard 
voices.  With  a  beating  heart  he  put  an  eye  to  the  key- 
hole. By  doing  so  he  was  able  to  see  the  whole  interior 
of  the  room. 

As  he  looked  the  hot  blood  in  his  veins  ran  cold.  Misery 
stabbed  his  heart.  There  were  two  people  in  the  room, 
Zita  and  a  man.  And  Zita  was  in  the  man's  arms.  That 
was  all  he  needed  to  see. 

That  the  man  was  the  girl's  lover  there  could  be  no 
doubt.  And  he  was  a  Signore.  Sardo's  ideals  were  killed 
before  he  rose  from  his  prying  position.  His  young 
world  had  become  old  and  cold  and  sinister.  Perhaps  he 
was  going  mad?  This  girl  had  seemed  to  him  as  pure  as 
the  Virgin  Mother.  He  would  have  sworn  that  her  flight 
from  Empedocle  was  genuine,  and  not  a  clever  pose  or  an 
intrigue.  Now  he  knew  that  he  had  been  fooled.  The 
girl  had  been  with  her  lover;  why  she  had  jumped  on  to  his 
cart  from  the  window  he  could  not  explain  to  himself. 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  125 

Probably  she  had  stayed  too  long  and  she  saw  no  other 
means  of  getting  home. 

He  laughed  savagely.  A  cheated  Sicilian  is  an  ugly 
thing.  Sardo  had  been  cheated  and  fooled.  The  girl  was 
bad  and  deceitful.  And  yet  he  cursed  the  man  who  had 
taken  her  from  him.  In  his  thoughts  she  had  lived  with 
him  as  his  tenderly-loved  wife  ever  since  she  had  dropped 
from  heaven  on  to  his  cart.  She  had  become  a  part  of  his 
existence.  Each  day's  work  had  been  done  for  her,  each 
song  he  had  sung  had  been  sung  to  her,  each  lamb  born 
on  his  farm  had  been  a  promise  of  her  first-born  son,  her 
helpless  babe  feeding  at  her  breast. 

Now  she  had  made  all  fair  women  false  and  accursed. 
"Tesoro  mio,"  he  cried,  "you  are  to  be  cast  out  of  my 
thoughts,  you  are  to  be  one  with  all  the  other  women  of  the 
town,  whose  love  is  for  sale !" 

Even  as  he  said  the  words  he  scorned  them.  Surely  those 
dear  eyes  had  seen  fear?  He  could  hear  her  clear  voice 
singing  "Caro  nome" ;  he  could  see  her  perched  up  on  her 
seat  of  green  rushes.  Must  his  thoughts  no  longer  rever- 
ence her?  Was  she  a  creature  to  be  enjoyed  and  played 
with,  then  cast  aside?  Motherhood  would  never  set  its 
crown  upon  her  beauty. 

These  thoughts  crucified  his  flesh  and  stained  and  shat- 
tered his  ideals  as  his  hurying  feet  carried  him  far  from 
Zita's  sandless  door. 

In  such  a  way  was  Zita  robbed  of  a  devout  lover. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

IN  the  Casa  Salvatore  the  Greek  urns  were  on  the  table; 
two  strangers  were  gazing  at  them  with  admiring  eyes — 
or  rather,  the  elder  of  the  two  was  examining  them  min- 
utely, whilst  the  younger  man  was  only  making  a  pre- 
tence; his  eyes  were  stealing  quick  glances  at  Zita, 


126  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

The  crevices  of  the  window  shutters  and  the  door  had 
been  plugged  with  cotton  wool,  the  door  had  been  locked 
from  the  inside. 

Mr.  George  A.  Langbridge,  the  possible  purchaser  of 
the  urns,  was  a  dignified,  good-looking,  elderly  man,  with 
a  singularly  clean  and  attractive  personality.  He  was  un- 
mistakably an  American  gentleman.  His  son,  who  was 
not  so  good-looking,  had  a  sterner  face,  though  the  ex- 
pression of  his  mobile  mouth  was  humorous  and  his  eyes 
when  he  smiled  were  reassuring. 

Mr.  Langbridge  turned  to  Salvatore  and  said  almost 
reverently:  "They  are  more  beautiful  than  I  expected; 
they  are  worth  much  money.  But  you  know  of  course  that 
we  are  not  allowed  to  take  antiques  out  of  Italy." 

"Si,  Signore,  but  many  go." 

Mr.  Langbridge  smiled.  "I  want  these  vases.  They 
are  worth  twice  the  money  you  are  asking  for  them." 

Salvatore  threw  back  his  head.  "I  shall  be  glad  to  get 
the  sum  I  mentioned,  Signore.  I  will  not  go  back  on  my 
word;  I  should  not  sell  them  if  I  did  not  require  the 
money." 

The  youth's  voice  hurt  the  fine  sensibilities  of  the  Ameri- 
can. He  looked  at  him  keenly. 

"Count  Zarano  fixed  the  price,"  he  said.  "I  didn't  beat 
him  down.  I  left  all  arrangements  to  him." 

"I  understand,  Signore.  I  need  money;  I  shall  be  well 
paid." 

The  American's  eyes  travelled  round  the  cottage.  Had 
so  much  pure  beauty  ever  before  been  gathered  in  so  small 
a  space? — the  Greek  urns,  the  beautiful  girl,  the  classic 
youth  ? 

Apart  from  the  urns,  the  contents  of  the  room  could 
have  been  bought  for  a  few  pounds.  The  sheepskin  in  the 
corner  obviously  covered  a  bed ;  did  the  youth  whose  move- 
ments made  his  own  feel  clumsy,  sleep  on  it,  he  wondered? 

Mr.  Langbridge  came  of  Quaker  stock.  He  did  not 
know  that  he  was  buying  stolen  goods,  but  he  did  know 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  127 

that  he  had  no  right  to  take  antiques  out  of  Sicily  or  Italy 
without  the  permission  of  the  Government.  This  seemed 
to  him  an  unjust  law;  America  needed  the  refining  influ- 
ence of  classic  art  more  than  Italy.  Italy  had  plenty  of 
antiques. 

"These  urns  were  a  great  find,"  he  said  to  Salvatore. 
He  had  to  say  something  while  his  mind  was  seeking  for  a 
means  by  which  he  could  better  pay  the  youth  for  his 
treasures.  There  was  something  about  Salvatore  which 
prevented  him  from  actually  offering  him  a  higher  price 
than  the  sum  asked.  An  idea  came  to  him  suddenly.  He 
could  add  considerably  to  the  cheque  by  paying  him  a 
large  sum  for  taking  them  down  to  his  yacht ;  nothing  had 
been  said  about  that. 

At  first  Salvatore  refused  the  sum  he  offered,  but  the 
Signore  said  it  was  not  too  much  for  the  risk  he  was 
taking;  he  would  not  let  him  do  it  for  less. 

"I  should  like  very  much  to  know,"  he  said,  "if  you 
won't  think  me  merely  curious,  what  you  are  doing — I 
mean,  what  is  your  ambition?  Count  Zarano  told  me  that 
you  spent  your  leisure  hours  over  scientific  research." 

"Si,  Signore,  I  am  deeply  interested  in  the  lost  art  of 
glazing."  Salvatore  instinctively  trusted  the  man  who  was 
going  to  smuggle  the  Greek  urns  out  of  the  Island ;  but  he 
did  not  mean  to  divulge  his  secret  to  him. 

The  American's  eyes  kindled.  "That  amazing  Egyp- 
tian blue  faience,  perhaps?  It  is  a  lost  art." 

Salvatore  bowed  his  head.  "The  iridescent  glazes  of 
Italy  and  Sicily  are  to  me  more  interesting." 

"And  you  want  money  for  your  work  ?  That  is  why  you 
are  selling  the  urns?" 

"Si,  si,  Signore.  I  wish  to  go  to  Rome.  I  shall  go  if  I 
can  manage  to  get  the  urns  down  to  your  yacht  safely." 

"You  think  you  can  manage  it?" 

"Spero  di  si.  I  will  try."  Salvatore's  eyes  were  gleam- 
ing, but  his  face  was  very  pale. 

The  American  took  in  every  detail  of  his  appearance — 


128  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

his  delicate  fingers,  his  finely-chiselled  ears  and  classic  con- 
tour of  throat.  He  next  entered  into  a  discussion  with  him 
regarding  the  exact  time  and  place  for  the  delivery  of  the 
urns  on  his  yacht. 

As  all  their  conversation  had  to  be  carried  on  in  English 
it  took  a  long  time  to  complete  the  arrangement.  Mean- 
while Zita  had  been  answering  the  questions  of  the  younger 
man.  He  could  speak  Italian  with  fluency.  As  a  con- 
tractor in  America  he  employed  a  large  number  of  Italian 
workmen;  he  had  an  Italian  overseer;  he  understood 
Italians  and  liked  them;  he  respected  their  intelligence 
and  industry. 

When  Zita  had  told  him  about  her  brother's  work  as  an 
excavator,  she  answered  simply  and  intelligently  all  the 
questions  he  asked  her,  about  the  conditions  of  the  sulphur 
miners,  their  wages  and  their  hours  of  work. 

He  was  of  course  talking  to  her  more  or  less  for  the 
pleasure  it  gave  him  to  look  at  her,  for  in  no  other  way 
could  he  have  looked  at  her  so  much.  He  did  not  mind 
how  long  his  father  took  to  settle  about  the  vases.  What  a 
strange  country  Sicily  was !  Only  that  very  afternoon  they 
had  walked  through  the  back  streets  of  the  town,  where 
they  had  seen  so  much  ugliness  and  wretchedness  that  he 
had  flown  from  them  in  horror.  Now  the  girl  and  her 
brother,  in  their  whitewashed  cottage,  showed  him  the  other 
side  of  the  picture,  a  contrast  which  is  peculiarly  Sicilian. 

When  at  last  the  business  was  finished,  the  lengthy 
"addios"  had  been  exchanged  and  the  Americans  were 
walking  down  the  street,  the  younger  man  said  eagerly: 

"My,  dad!  But  there's  some  beauty  in  that  cot- 
tage." 

Mr.  Langbridge  smiled.  "Some  beauty,  as  you  say, 
Waldo.  Isn't  this  an  astonishing  country?  Doesn't  it 
show  that  nothing  ever  dies?  Those  children  are  as  Greek 
as  their  urns." 

"I  was  sorry  to  say  good-bye,  weren't  you?" 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  129 

"I'd  like  to  do  something  for  the  youth.  The  puzzle  is — 
what  can  one  do? 

The  younger  man  laughed.  "I'd  like  to  do  something 
with  that  girl!  My  goodness,  she's  hard  to  beat!  She's 
a  peach,  she's  a  beauty." 

I  shan't  get  you  safe  back  home,  Waldo — I  can  see 
that." 

"She's  taken  my  fancy  right  enough." 

"They  are  both  worthy  of  better  surroundings.  But  the 
young  man's  going  to  Rome,  he  says.  He's  got  sound 
ideas;  he's  no  fool." 

"What  about?" 

"Glazes  and  hard  cements  and  so  forth." 

"He  has,  has  he?  It's  cement  he's  after?  Is  this  exca- 
vating only  a  sideshow?  Roman  cement  for  ships  will 
make  someone's  fortune." 

"Yes,  so  far  as  I  could  gather,  but  it  was  not  easy 
for  me  to  follow  him;  sometimes  his  English  puzzled 
me." 

"Have  you  arranged  about  the  urns?" 

"Yes.  He'll  take  then  down  to  Porto  Empedocle.  They 
will  go  on  board  as  oil  jars.  They  will  be  all  right — trust 
a  Sicilian!" 

"I  hope  you  won't  be  stopped  and  searched  on  the  high 
seas." 

"Little  likelihood — they  have  never  been  seen  by  anyone 
except  that  girl  and  the  Count.  It's  not  like  a  celebrated 
picture  or  even  a  fine  piece  of  furniture." 

"I  don't  trust  that  dago  Zarano.  That  nice  Scots  girl 
is  ways  too  good  for  him." 

"Why,  Waldo,  I  rather  enjoy  his  society.  He's  very 
cultured  and  clever." 

"A  rogue  in  six  languages,  if  you  ask  me." 

"Is  iihat  so?  He  speaks  English  like  an  Englishman, 
and  apart  from  his  better  manners,  he  might  pass  for  one. 
He's  a  very  fine  musician." 

"I  wouldn't  mind  betting  you  that  he's  going  to  get  his 


130  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

'squeeze'  out  of  that  young  excavator,  a  pretty  big  one, 
too." 

"You  don't  mean  that?"  Mr.  Langbridge's  blue  eyes 
looked  wonderingly  at  his  son.  "He  seems  a  gentleman; 
he  spends  his  money  pretty  freely." 

"How  does  he  make  it?" 

"This  archaeological  work  appears  to  be  a  hobby,  the 
work  of  a  gentleman  of  leisure  and  money." 

The  younger  man  laughed.  "There  aren't  many  men  of 
leisure  and  money  amongst  his  countrymen." 

"Isn't  he  an  Austrian  aristocrat?  Aren't  they  the  gen- 
tlemen of  Europe?" 

"He  prefers  to  be  called  an  Austrian  because  Croats  are 
liked  even  ten  degrees  less  than  Austrians  in  Italy.  The 
feeling  against  Austrians  is  really  not  personal;  it's 
political.  Austrians  are  gentlemen  and  Italians  like  them. 
It  is  the  Austrianized  Croat  that  their  soul  abhors.  And 
little  wonder!  The  Austrians  have  always  used  them  as 
tools  against  Itaty ;  they  have  done  Austria's  dirty  work." 

"Then  you  think  Count  Zarano  is  a  Croat?  I  know 
nothing  about  Croats ;  I  know  there  is  a  rabbit-warren  of 
Balkan  peoples  in  south-eastern  Europe,  troublesome 
people,  but  I  couldn't  tell  you  one  single  thing  about  any 
of  them." 

"You'll  be  able  to  tell  more  some  day,  or  I'm  mistaken." 

"Is  that  so?" 

"Why,  certainly.  Education  with  these  people  is  going 
to  act  like  manure  in  a  f orcing-bed ;  it's  going  to  bring 
forth  much  fruit.  Time  will  prove  what  the  harvest  will 
mean." 

When  they  reached  the  entrance  to  the  hotel  grounds 
they  caught  a  glimpse  of  Christine  and  the  Count. 

"Look!"  Waldo  Langbridge  said.  My  Croat  is  in- 
structing pretty  Miss  Lovat  in  the  mystery  of  the  heav- 
ens." His  voice  was  bitter. 

His  father  looked  for  a  moment  before  he  saw  the  two 
figures.  "You  are  jealous,  Waldo.  He's  only  doing  what 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  131 

any  other  young  fellow  would  do  if  he  had  the  chance. 
Miss  Lovat  is  very  much  to  my  liking.  I  admire  her  good 
style  and  freshness,  don't  you?  She  is  a  lady — and  that's 
saying  a  very  great  deal  in  these  days." 

"Given  the  same  chance,  that  little  Greek  girl  would 
wipe  the  floor  with  her."  He  paused.  "In  Scotland  there 
are  many  Miss  Lovats ;  I  doubt  if  even  in  Sicily  there  are 
two  Zita  Mazzinis." 

"Miss  Lovat  is  a  woman  we  can  understand,  Waldo; 
she's  a  woman  of  our  own  Anglo-Saxon  blood.  That  little 
girl  might  as  well  be  the  replica  of  a  Greek  coin  as  a 
human  being.  She's  one  of  Nature's  gentlewomen,  but  I 
doubt  if  I  could  ever  understand  her." 

"A  Greek  statue  spoilt  by  clothes." 

"Just  so!  Now  Miss  Lovat  can  look  like  a  wood 
nymph,  but  in  my  thoughts  she  can  be  transformed  into  a 
possible  wife  and  mother — and  I  suppose  that  is  how  we 
ought  to  sum  up  women — possible  wives  and  mothers." 

Waldo  Langbridge  laughed.  "Italians  always  see  in 
young  womanhood  possible  mothers  of  children." 

"Do  they?" 

"In  the  women  they  respect,  I  mean." 

"It's  a  good  foundation  for  matrimony,  Waldo.  What 
do  you  think?" 

"Anglo-Saxon  love  takes  a  mighty  lot  on  trust.  Our 
men  will  marry  any  kind  of  a  girl  if  they  are  sufficiently  in 
love  with  her.  The  good  wife  and  mother  of  his  children 
idea  comes  precious  little  into  his  calculations.  I  think 
statistics  would  prove  that  the  Italian  principle  is  the 
sounder." 

The  two  men  stood  still.  The  heavens  held  them.  The 
stars  at  the  moment  seemed  too  many  for  the  night  sky ; 
some  of  them  fell  to  earth. 

"Waldo,  my  boy,  'On  such  a  night  did  pretty  Jessica.' 
Don't  you  think  that  climate  has  a  mighty  lot  to  account 
for?  These  fireflies  flitting  through  the  air  like  golden 
needles ;  that  scent  of  orange-blossom  coming  from  lovers' 


132  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

Edens ;  the  subconsciousness  that  those  pagan  temples  are 
standing  over  there  in  that  holy  calm.  .  .  ."  He  laughed 
softly.  "Why,  at  your  age  I'd  have  proposed  to  half-a- 
dozen  girls  on  a  night  like  this." 

"In  spite  of  the  wife  and  motherhood  business,  father?" 

"Under  these  stars  any  sort  of  woman  would  appear 
perfect;  the  stars  and  the  moon  are  beautifiers.  My!  But 
it's  a  dangerous  land,  a  dangerous,  delightful  land.  I 
must  get  you  out  of  it,  Waldo." 

"I'm  not  going,  Siree.  It  suits  me  very  well.  Besides, 
I  want  to  see  a  'tunny  batto.' " 

"Well,  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  wanted  to.  They  tell  me  that 
the  sea  runs  blood  like  a  battlefield ;  it's  a  gigantic  shambles 
on  the  high  seas." 

Christine  and  her  companion  Count  Zarano  were  stand- 
ing on  the  terrace  which  overlooked  the  great  plain.  They 
were  standing  side  by  side  looking  at  the  stars,  their  heads 
thrown  back,  the  clear  light  of  the  moon  lighting  up  their 
faces. 

The  two  Americans  stopped ;  their  coming  had  not  been 
heard;  for  a  moment  they  watched  the  lovers  spellbound. 

They  were  a  goodly  couple.  Suddenly  and  as  if  by  in- 
stinct their  upturned  heads  were  turned  to  each  other,  their 
lips  met.  The  action  was  so  natural  and  so  beautiful  that 
the  onlookers  felt  the  same  reverence  for  Christine's  devout 
kiss  as  they  would  have  felt  in  the  presence  of  the  dead. 
Americans  are  sentimental. 

"Come  on,  Waldo,"  his  father  whispered,  "let's  get 
away.  We  are  on  holy  ground." 

"I  hope  the  Count  thinks  the  same  thing." 

"Why,  man,  you  can't  doubt  it !  That  was  the  genuine 
article." 

"To  a  man  like  the  Count  a  woman's  kiss  can  so  often  be 
the  genuine  article.  However,  it's  no  business  of  ours,  so 
let's  turn  in." 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  133 


MKS.  BULLOCK  simply  put  her  foot  down.  Christine  did 
not  go  to  the  Museum. 

Of  course  Count  Zarano  had  been  at  the  bottom  of  it, 
but  she  did  not  know  that.  He  had  told  her  aunt  that  for 
Christine  to  go  to  the  Museum  and  walk  about  alcne  with 
Salvatore  Mazzini  was  neither  wise  nor  really  kind  to  the 
hot-blooded  youth. 

"I  have  seen  these  things  tried,"  he  said,  "and  invari- 
ably the  English  girl  has  been  sorry  for  her  thoughtless 
conduct." 

Christine  did  not  dispute  her  aunt's  command.  She  had 
been  brought  up  conventionally,  and  although  Salvatore 
Mazzini  was  an  artist  he  was  not  socially  her  equal;  she 
had  not  thought  of  him  as  she  thought  of  Count  Zarano. 

Instead  of  going  to  the  Museum  she  had  driven  up  to 
the  town  and  attended  high  mass  at  the  cathedral  with  her 
aunt. 

That  was  only  a  few  days  ago.  But  much  can  happen 
in  a  few  days  at  such  a  critical  epoch  in  a  girl's  life. 
Christine  was  living  quickly  and  A'itally ;  each  hour 
counted,  each  day  called  her  swiftly  to  greater  things. 
She  was  so  inwardly  happy  that  it  did  not  matter  very 
much  what  she  did.  It  was  all  Sicily,  and  three  or  four 
times  each  day  she  had  the  excitement  and  pleasure  of 
being  with  her  lover.  Through  his  clever  devising  there 
was  some  romantic  pleasure  to  look  forward  to  every 
evening. 

She  had  known  him  for  less  than  a  month,  yet  it  seemed 
years  since  she  had  felt  any  mistrust  of  him  and  misjudged 
his  character.  The  thought  of  it  made  her  angry  with 
herself.  She  was  now  willing  to  trust  herself  to  his  keep- 
ing for  the  rest  of  her  life,  and  her  life  was  to  be  a  glorious 
one.  He  was  to  take  her  to  Egypt  and  to  Syria  and  to 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

Greece.  They  were  to  live  in  the  desert  until  they  felt 
the  call  of  the  world,  the  desire  for  other  society  than  their 
own.  Then  they  were  to  go  to  Vienna  and  Paris  and 
Rome. 

Christine  never  questioned  her  lover's  worldly  riches,  his 
ability  to  do  all  these  things.  He  had  asked  her  to  marry 
him,  so  of  course  he  could  afford  to  keep  her  in  comfort,  if 
not  in  great  luxury.  With  her  aunt  she  had  every  luxury, 
but  her  London  life  bored  her.  Her  own  small  income,  a 
colonel's  daughter's  pension,  which  would  of  course  cease 
at  her  marriage,  scarcely  did  more  than  pay  for  her  taxi 
fares.  But  her  aunt  liked  to  take  about  with  her  a  pretty, 
well-dressed  niece  who  did  her  credit;  every  penny  she 
spent  on  the  girl  was  spent  for  her  own  satisfaction.  She 
was  an  intensely  selfish  woman. 

Christine  was  ridicuously  happy.  A  lover  in  Sicily — and 
such  a  lover — made  the  enchantment  of  the  Laughing  Land 
complete.  He  made  her  heart  sing  with  delight  from  morn- 
ing until  night.  He  taught  her  how  poor  a  thing  her  life 
had  been  before  he  had  come  into  it.  Things  which  were 
beautiful  were  a  thousand  times  more  beautiful  when  seen 
through  a  lover's  eyes.  A  newborn  pity  for  all  unloved 
things  made  her  more  womanly.  But  as  yet  she  did  not 
know  the  difference  between  being  romantically  in  love 
with  Love  and  being  in  love. 

They  were  doing  the  sulphur  mines.  A  chaperone  had 
been  found  and  also  another  sightseer,  who  made  a  welcome 
fourth.  For  the  time  being  Waldo  Langbridge  put  his 
prejudice  in  his  pocket.  He  wished  to  see  a  sulphur  mine 
and  he  imagined  that  Christine  would  prefer  a  partie 
caree.  But  his  dislike  for  the  Croat  had  not  diminished. 

They  had  taken  the  train  from  Girgenti  to  the  mining 
centre  of  Serradifalco.  From  Serradifalco  to  the  mine 
they  rode  on  donkeys.  Long  before  they  reached  the 
station  Christine  knew  that  they  were  in  a  sulphur  district 
and  that  Sicily  had  turned  her  ugly  cheek  to  them.  They 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  135 

were  in  a  barren  land  where  nothing  grew,  and  nothing 
could  live.  It  was  as  ugly  as  any  Inferno  pictured  by 
Dante.  Instead  of  fields  of  blood-red  sanfoil,  pink  lupins 
and  orange-coloured  marigolds,  which  they  had  left  be- 
hind them,  she  could  see  absolutely  nothing  but  what 
looked  like  gigantic  anthills  of  a  pink  and  greenish  colour. 
They  were  the  "tailings,"  as  the  rubbish-heaps  of  mines 
are  technically  called.  Here  and  there  a  monster  chimney 
reared  its  ungainly  head  and  belched  out  smoke  into  the 
sky.  In  the  far  distance  there  were  blue  and  lofty  moun- 
tains. 

They  were  in  a  world  abandoned  to  sulphur.  Sulphur 
mines  have  a  way  of  looking  as  if  they  were  disused,  an 
appearance  which  adds  to  the  natural  desolation  of  the 
scenery.  Mine-owners  are  compelled  to  purchase  the  land 
for  nearly  a  mile  round  the  area  of  the  mines,  because  the 
land  is  rendered  valueless.  Everything  was  very  grey  and 
still  and  oppressive  and  of  course  destitute  of  shade.  Now 
and  then  a  white  falcon  flew  high  over  their  heads  in  its 
ardent  desire  to  reach  the  sanctuary  of  the  blue  mountains. 
In  the  distance  Christine  could  distinguish  trains  of  sul- 
phur-laden mules  winding  their  way  in  and  out  of  the 
hills.  They  looked  like  trails  of  ants  migrating  to  some 
fresh  colony. 

As  they  approached  the  valley  where  the  mine,  which  had 
been  worked  continuously  for  two  hundred  and  fifty  years, 
lay,  fumes  of  sulphur  caught  their  throats  and  hurt  their 
eyes.  The  landscape  became  even  more  desolate.  There 
were  no  longer  the  distant  hills  to  remind  Christine  that  she 
was  riding  through  the  playground  of  the  Gods.  She 
coughed  and  rubbed  her  eyes.  The  Count  was  riding  by 
her  side ;  he  had  been  watching  her  closely. 

"The  air  is  not  really  very  bad  to-day,"  he  said,  "be- 
cause in  the  spring  the  fires  which  heat  the  little  kilns  for 
melting  the  ore,  and  which  are  never  allowed  to  go  out, 
have  to  be  kept  very  low.  The  fumes  must  not  travel 
more  than  six  miles." 


136  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

"What  must  it  be  like  in  winter,  if  this  is  not  bad?"  A 
fit  of  coughing  stopped  her  speaking.  Presently  she  said, 
"What  did  you  say  the  fires  Avere  for?" 

"To  smelt  and  burn  the  ore.  These  'gill  fires,'  as  they 
are  called,  keep  on  lighting  themselves,  which  means  an 
enormous  saving  of  labour.  The  man  who  invented  them 
was  called  Gill ;  he  came  from  the  Isle  of  Man,  which  per- 
haps you  don't  know  has  for  its  crest  three  legs,  just  like 
the  Sicilian  Trinacria.  You  will  see  the  yellow  sulphur 
pouring  out  of  the  kilns  into  flat  pans.  When  it  is  taken 
from  the  mines  it  is  in  a  perfectly  dry  condition,  of 
course." 

Later  on  Christine  saw  the  liquid  sulphur,  which  poured 
out  of  the  kilns  like  a  golden  stream  of  toffee.  And  far 
down  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  she  saw  men  hacking  it  out 
of  its  bed  in  the  rocks.  She  saw  wonderful  sights  in  that 
dark  cool  underworld,  which  came  as  a  relief  to  her  tired 
body  and  burning  feet,  for  the  ground  above  the  mine  was 
hot  and  soft ;  an  amazing  world  full  of  busy  men  and  sing- 
ing boys. 

And  now  the  adventure  was  over;  they  were  again  on 
their  donkeys  and  on  their  way  back  to  the  station.  But 
Christine  could  still  see  the  half-naked  men  hacking  out 
the  ore  in  small  chambers,  which  were  lit  by  safety-lamps, 
their  bright  eyes  and  pale  skins  showing  clearly  in  the  dark 
surroundings.  She  could  hear  the  "carusi"  (boys)  sing- 
ing old  mining  songs,  as  they  pushed  their  ore-filled  wag- 
gons along  the  narrow  gauge  line  which  ran  along  the 
galleries.  She  could  feel  again  her  lover's  hand  seeking 
hers  whenever  an  opportunity  occurred.  How  she  had 
loved  him  for  remembering  her! 

The  whole  thing  had  astonished  Christine.  She  had  been 
told  by  Mr.  Langbridge  that  she  would  see  child-labour, 
with  all  its  horrors.  Instead  of  which,  she  had  seen  boys, 
singing  and  joking  as  they  pulled  trucks  of  debris  along 
smoothly  laid  lines.  It  had  shocked  her  to  hear  the  over- 
seer boast  that  the  best-paid  miners  could  easily  earn  two 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  137 

shillings  per  day,  a  day  which  began  at  six  a.  m.  and  ended 
at  six  p.  m.,  for  if  she  had  been  offered  a  year's  wages  she 
would  not  have  gone  down  the  mine  again. 

While  she  was  riding  and  thinking  these  thoughts,  some- 
thing was  vexing  her  much  more  than  the  economic  condi- 
tions of  the  miners. 

The  donkey-boy  who  was  running  behind  her  was  every 
now  and  then  urging  on  her  animal  by  jagging  its  flesh  at 
the  most  sensitive  parts  of  its  body  with  the  sharpened 
point  of  a  nail,  securely  fixed  into  a  short  thick  handle 
of  wood.  Each  time  he  jagged  it  the  donkey  threw  up  its 
hind  legs  and  scuttled  on  quickly  for  a  few  paces. 

More  than  once  she  had  tried  to  make  him  give  her  the 
nail,  but  when  she  questioned  him  he  made  a  pretence  of 
having  done  nothing  to  the  animal.  He  had  nothing  in  his 
hand,  it  was  not  his  fault.  The  English  Signorina  might 
belong  to  the  English  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty 
to  Animals,  which  as  he  knew  had  insisted  upon  the  Italian 
authorities  prohibiting  the  use  of  these  primitive  instru- 
ments of  cruelty. 

At  last  Chrstine  called  out  to  her  lover ;  she  could  endure 
it  no  longer. 

"What  is  the  matter,  sweetheart?" 

The  Count  had  ridden  back  to  her;  he  was  on  a  very 
fast  mule. 

"That  wretched  boy  is  stabbing  my  donkey  with  one  of 
those  sharpened  nails,  and  he  won't  give  it  up — he  says  he 
hasn't  got  one.  Do  make  him  give  it  to  you."  Christine's 
eyes  pleaded.  "He  is  spoiling  my  day,  and  I'm  getting  so 
tired  and  cross." 

"You  darling!"  her  lover  said  sympathetically.  "But 
the  donkey  will  probably  refuse  to  move  if  I  take  it." 

"Oh  no  it  won't!  Do  take  it!  I  can't  bear  it  any 
longer.  It  was  going  quite  well.  He's  just  a  cruel  little 
wretch." 

The  Count  looked  at  the  sun.  It  was  sinking;  he  knew 
that  they  had  just  time  to  catch  the  last  train  to  Girgenti. 


138  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

The  boy  gave  the  donkey  another  dig.  Up  went  its  heels 
and  Christine  almost  went  over  its  head. 

"There !"  cried  Christine.  Isn't  he  too  fiendish?  If  you 
love  me,  dearest,  take  that  hateful  thing  from  him." 

"You  will  risk  the  consequences?" 

"What  consequences?" 

"It  will  crawl  for  the  rest  of  the  way.  They  get  accus- 
tomed to  such  treatment  and  won't  go  without  it." 

Christine  looked  annoyed  and  disappointed.  "I  don't 
mind  if  it  does  crawl — anything  rather  than  such  abom- 
inable cruelty.  Surely  you  long  to  thrash  ths  little  vil- 
lain?" 

"The  animal  has  not  got  your  skin,  remember. 

"I  am  sitting  on  it,"  she  answered  coldly,  "and  I  can 
feel  it  shrink  and  wince.  It  is  nonsense  to  say  it  doesn't 
feel." 

The  desolation  of  the  sulphur-fumed  country,  the  fatigue 
of  the  day's  excursion,  were  having  their  effect  on  the 
girl's  nerves. 

Her  lover  saw  her  strained  expression,  the  forlorn  eyes ; 
she  was  almost  hysterical. 

He  called  the  boy  to  his  side;  at  his  stern  bidding  the 
caruso  handed  over  the  nail.  This  made  Christine  still 
more  annoyed;  the  boy  had  refused  to  give  it  up  to  her. 
She  urged  the  animal  forward  until  it  was  abreast  of  her 
lover's  mule. 

"Let  me  see  it,"  she  said.  "What  sort  of  hellish  thing 
is  it?" 

This  was  a  new  Christine  to  the  Count,  who  silently 
handed  her  the  nail.  It  was  discoloured  with  blood  and 
covered  with  matted  hair. 

"Look !"  she  cried.  "Look !  You  can  see  how  the  poor 
animal  must  have  suffered." 

Her  lover  did  not  seem  moved  or  excited;  he  had  wit- 
nessed worse  deeds  from  donkey-boys.  Christine's  eyes 
expressed  both  horror  and  surprise.  Was  this  her  lover? 
The  tender  shepherd  who  had  bound  up  the  limb  of  the 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  139 

suffering  helpless  kid?  She  raised  her  arm  high  above 
her  head  and  flung  the  nail  as  far  away  as  she  could. 

"There!"  she  said.  "How  I'd  love  to  see  you  soundly 
thrash  the  little  beast,  or  at  least  feel  as  I  do  about  it." 

"What  good  would  it  do?  He  thinks  you  are  both 
ignorant  and  mad;  in  his  opinion  animals  have  no  souls. 
It  is  through  our  souls  that  we  suffer,  our  souls  raise  us 
above  the  level  of  animals.  He  thinks  you  are  very 
ignorant  not  to  know  that ;  but  you  are  only  a  Protestant, 
a  heretic." 

"They  know  quite  well  that  animals  feel,"  Christine 
said,  in  a  dry  voice,  "else  why  should  jabbing  the  donkey 
make  it  go?" 

Her  donkey's  pace  was  degenerating  into  a  slow  walk. 
She  urged  it  on,  but  it  paid  no  attention  to  her  humane 
efforts.  Soon  the  distance  between  her  donkey  and  her 
lover's  mule  grew  greater  and  greater.  They  were  both  a 
considerable  way  behind  the  rest  of  the  party,  who  were 
riding  along  the  track  in  Indian  file. 

With  a  sinking  heart  she  tried  desperately  to  make  the 
animal  quicken  its  pace  by  pulling  the  reins,  by  pressing 
her  heels  against  its  sides,  by  cries,  threats  and  entreaties. 
But  nothing  had  the  slightest  effect  on  the  tired  animal. 

"Amonine!  Amonine!"  She  tried  to  imitate  the  long- 
drawn-out  Sicilian  cry.  But  if  the  animal  recognized  it, 
it  ignored  it;  its  head  sank  lower  and  lower  until  it  was 
almost  between  its  forelegs;  it  was  scarcely  crawling. 

She  called  out  to  the  boy  to  come  and  make  it  go  more 
quickly.  He  ran  close  up  to  it  and  gave  such  a  yell  that 
Christine  almost  fell  off  its  back.  The  donkey  only 
switched  its  tail  and  the  boy  did  not  attempt  to  do  any- 
thing more. 

Her  lover  was  now  far  ahead;  his  mule  wished  to  pass 
the  others. 

The  boy  was  enjoying  himself  immensely.  The  Signo- 
rina  would  miss  her  train ;  she  would  soon  find  out  her  folly. 
He  gave  another  appalling  yell ;  it  echoed  round  the  deso- 


140  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

late  hills.  But  this  time  the  donkey  did  not  even  switch  its 
tail;  it  could  not  have  gone  slower  without  stopping  alto- 
gether. 

Tears  of  helplessness  and  rage  were  swimming  in  Chris- 
tine's eyes.  She  was  angry  with  the  world;  the  country 
which  she  was  going  through  was  an  inferno;  the  boy  at 
her  side  an  impudent  grinning  little  devil;  her  lover  was 
unsympathetic.  Sicily  was  indeed  showing  her  ugly  face. 

The  Count  looked  at  his  watch.  The  girl  had  learnt  her 
lesson.  He  turned  his  mule,  and  digging  his  heels  into  its 
ribs,  in  a  minute  or  two  he  was  at  Christine's  side.  He  was 
no  lover,  but  one  to  be  obeyed. 

"Get  off  your  donkey  quickly — there  is  no  time  to  lose. 
You  must  ride  my  mule." 

He  had  flung  himself  off  and  put  his  arms  round  Chris- 
tine. But  they  held  no  caress.  A  delighted  grin  made  the 
boy's  ugly  face  comely. 

"Now  jump!"  her  lover  said,  as  he  held  her  slim  foot  in 
his  hand.  "And  we  must  go  like  the  wind  or  we  shall  miss 
the  train." 

He  sprang  up  behind  her  and  called  out,  "Amonine! 
Amonine !" 

They  were  off  together,  off  like  an  arrow  shot  from  a 
bow.  The  mule  was  at  last  allowed  to  pass  its  distant 
companions  if  it  could. 

Christine  was  breathless  and  tired.  She  had  no  idea  that 
a  mule  could  go  at  such  a  pace.  Her  lover  heard  her  quick 
breathing ;  he  felt  the  tension  of  her  body. 

"Now  you  know,  sweetheart,  why  I  did  not  give  you 
my  mule  to  ride.  It  would  have  bolted  with  you ;  I  have 
had  my  work  cut  out  holding  it  back." 

They  were  quickly  gaining  on  the  advance  party.  Chris- 
tine was  beginning  to  feel  less  miserable,  although  she  was 
also  beginning  to  think  that  she  had  made  a  fool  of  herself. 
She  was  too  tired  to  speak,  but  her  lover's  presence  was 
soothing.  To  be  so  close  to  him  was  exquisite.  He  kissed 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

the  back  of  her  neck,  where  bright  little  curls  flirted  with 
her  ears  and  throat. 

"I  was  so  miserable,"  she  said  humbly.  "You  seemed 
all  of  a  sudden  to  have  changed  into  the  man  I  distrusted 
and  was  afraid  of."  She  laughed  softly,  as  he  stole  an- 
other kiss.  "How  long  ago  that  seems  now !  And  I  never 
told  you  why  I  suddenly  knew  that  I  had  been  all  wrong." 

"My  angry  Christine,  my  tired  little  girl.  I  knew  you 
thought  me  heartless.  But  we  must  hurry,  or  we  shall 
miss  the  train.  Personally  I  should  like  to  ride  like  this  to 
Girgenti,  or  to  Kingdom  Come,  but  I  must  think  of  you." 

"Are  we  late?" 

"If  you  hadn't  mounted  the  mule,  we  shouldn't  have 
caught  the  train." 

"Was  I  so  nearly  missing  it?"  she  laughed  happily. 

"It  would  have  been  pretty  awful,"  he  said.  "As  it  is, 
we  haven't  a  minute  to  spare." 

The  mule  had  slackened  its  pace.  He  urged  it  on,  and 
with  a  few  swift  strides  it  was  almost  abreast  of  the  leaders 
of  the  party. 

"Is  there  no  other  line,  no  other  train  to  Girgenti?" 

"No.    You  would  have  had  to  stay  here  all  night." 

They  had  made  up  on  the  others  and  no  more  was  said 
on  the  subject;  but  it  gave  Christine  plenty  of  food  for 
reflection. 

Waldo  Langbridge  was  the  first  to  speak  to  them  as 
they  cantered  up  on  the  one  black  mule. 

"Ah!  There  you  are  at  last!"  he  cried.  "We  were 
getting  anxious." 

"After  I  made  my  boy  hand  me  over  the  horrible  thing 
he  was  jabbing  my  donkey  with  it  refused  to  budge.  I 
should  certainly  never  have  caught  the  train  if  Count 
Zarano  hadn't  come  to  my  rescue  and  given  me  a  lift  on  his 
mule." 

Waldo  Langbridge  laughed.  "I  did  the  same  thing.  I 
made  my  boy  give  me  the  beastly  thing,  but  I  had  to  give 
it  him  back  again." 


142  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

"But  I  threw  mine  away."  They  laughed  together. 
"What  fools  we  both  must  have  looked  to  the  young 
wretches !  Count  Zarano  warned  me,  but  I  wouldn't  take 
his  advice." 

Miss  Hudson  had  looked  very  shocked  when  Christine 
appeared  seated  in  front  of  the  Count,  but  she  accepted  the 
situation  in  the  proper  spirit  when  she  heard  Christine's 
confession. 

Soon  the  mule  carried  them  far  past  their  companions. 
Christine  turned  a  laughing  face  to  her  lover. 

"You  are  happy  again,  sweetheart?"  he  said  as  his  lips 
met  hers. 

"More  than  happy,  dearest.  I  was  a  fool  and  I 
apologise." 

"I  didn't  think  it  was  the  right  time  or  place  for  the 
lesson  you  wanted  me  to  give  the  boy.  I  hated  displeas- 
ing you — I  suffered  as  much  as  you  did.  You  believe 
that,  don't  you?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  but  I  longed  to  thrash  the  hateful  little 
beast!  You  .  .  .  well,  you  didn't!"  she  said  mis- 
chievously. 

"He  isn't  hateful  really.  He  would  probably  show 
more  sympathy  and  charity  to  a  starving  man  or  woman 
than  any  English  schoolboy.  And  remember  that  in  Sicily 
and  Italy  there  is  no  need  for  a  society  to  protect  children 
from  cruelty.  That  boy  understands  hunger  and  starva- 
tion, so  he  has  pity  for  the  wretched  and  unfed,  but  he  does 
not  believe  that  animals  suffer." 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  Christine's  visit  to  the 
sulphur  mines  made  her  admire  her  lover  for  his  justice  and 
impartiality,  just  as  his  kindness  to  the  suffering  kid  made 
her  feel  certain  that  her  first  impression  of  his  character 
was  wrong. 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  143 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THAT  same  night  in  her  aunt's  bedroom  Christine  told 
Mrs.  Bullock  that  Count  Zarano  had  asked  her  to  marry 
him  and  that  she  loved  him.  She  had  given  her  promise  in 
the  hope  that  her  aunt  would  gladly  give  her  consent. 

Her  aunt's  ivory-backed  brush  fell  to  the  floor.  A 
jealous  rage  convulsed  her;  she  could  not  make  her  lips 
speak.  Christine  watched  the  heavy  flesh  on  her  cheeks 
grow  hideously  pale. 

"You  like  him,  Auntie — say  you  approve." 

"Approve!  Approve!  No,  I  certainly  do  not  approve. 
You  are  a  sly  minx,  Christine."  Mrs.  Bullock's  voice  was 
high-pitched. 

Christine  tried  to  put  her  arms  round  her.  Mrs.  Bul- 
lock shook  her  off. 

"Yes,  a  sly  deceitful  minx !  You  pretended  you  disliked 
the  Count!  Before  me  you  rejected  any  politeness  he 
showed  you.  And  all  the  time  it  was  a  pose !" 

"I  did  dislike  him  at  first — at  least,  I  was  a  little  afraid 
of  him  ...  he  made  me  nervous  ...  he  does  still 
sometimes,  but  it's  rather  a  nice  feeling." 

Mrs.  Bullock  stared  at  her  niece.  Christine  was  stand- 
ing in  front  of  her  in  a  thin  pink  kimono;  it  fell  open  in 
front  and  revealed  a  soft  nightgown  of  white  crepe-de- 
chine,  which  clung  to  her  young  figure.  Her  glittering 
hair  was  about  her  shoulders.  Her  aunt  was  conscious  of 
the  subtle  fragrance  of  young  flesh ;  even  to  her  unimagina- 
tive mind  the  girl  looked  like  a  flower,  a  spring  flower 
culled  from  a  moist  English  orchard. 

"You  don't  know  your  own  mind!  You  are  just  a 
weathercock!  This  nonsense  is  only  because  the  Count  is 
the  first  man  who  has  seriously  made  love  to  you.  Count 
Zarano  is  a  thorough  man  of  the  world ;  he  should  marry  a 
woman  of  the  world,  not  a  schoolgirl  like  you." 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

"Girls  of  nineteen  are  not  children  nowadays.  I  shall  be 
twenty  soon ;  I  am  quite  a  woman."  In  spite  of  her  words 
Christine  only  looked  like  a  slim  schoolgirl.  Most  people 
would  have  agreed  with  her  aunt  that  she  was  "owr  young" 
to  marry  yet. 

"You  a  woman,  Christine?  Count  Zarano  knows  you 
are  only  a  child;  perhaps  he  is  tired  of  women." 

"Oh,  auntie !"    Christine  had  time  to  say  no  more. 

Her  aunt  had  controlled  her  violent  temper  as  long  as 
she  could ;  she  now  gave  it  full  rein.  The  girl's  expression 
maddened  her. 

"Silly  little  fool !"  she  said.  "What  do  you  know  about 
him?  What  has  he  got  to  keep  you  on?  A  fine  penny 
you'll  cost  him,  with  your  ignorance  of  money  and  love  of 
all  fine  things !  I  don't  suppose  you  have  any  idea  of  the 
cost  of  that  nightgown!  What  do  you  know  about  his 
people  or  his  past,  I  ask  you?" 

"Nothing,  Auntie — nothing  except  what  love  tells  a 
woman." 

"Love?  Fiddlesticks!  You  don't  know  what  love 
means.  Anyone  can  tell  that  by  the  way  you  sing!  No 
singing-master  can  teach  passion — and  you  haven't  got 
any.  The  man  has  just  played  on  your  vanity.  I  didn't 
think  you  could  have  been  such  a  fool,  Christine,  I  honestly 
didn't." 

Christine's  cheeks  were  flushed,  her  blue  eyes  looked 
black. 

"But  you  liked  him,  you  encouraged  him,  you  enjoyed 
his  music  and  bridge  and  company  generally!" 

"Of  course  I  did,  but  I  didn't  imagine  I'd  a  fool  for  a 
niece!  Where  has  your  Scots  sense  gone  to?" 

Christine  sighed.  "What  can  I  do,  Auntie?  I  hate  dis- 
pleasing you." 

"Do?  Leave  Girgenti  to-morrow,  of  course,  that's  what 
you'll  do.  Tell  your  fine  foreigner  that  you  must  give  him 
up,  that  you  didn't  mean  it." 

"That  I  never  will !" 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  145 

Her  aunt  came  nearer  to  her  and  looked  into  her  flaming 
eyes ;  they  were  like  polished  agates. 

"You  never  will,  won't  you,  Miss?  Then  tell  him  from 
me  that  you  are  dowerless,  for  not  one  penny  of  mine  shall 
go  to  support  an  idle  husband." 

Christine's  knowledge  that  her  aunt  had  lost  all  control 
of  her  temper  helped  her  to  keep  her  own. 

"Can't  you  remember  what  it  was  like  to  be  loved?"  she 
said.  "To  have  a  lover  makes  all  the  world  wonderful! 
You  must  know  that  a  woman  never  really  lives  until  she 
loves  ?"  Christine  imagined  that  she  was  speaking  because 
she  felt  these  things. 

"I  am  not  in  my  dotage  yet,  Christine !"  Mrs.  Bullock's 
voice  was  cruel,  her  eyes  vindictive;  she  could  have  hit 
Christine  for  her  words. 

"I  never  meant  that,  Auntie.  Do  forgive  me  and  do 
please  give  me  your  consent.  It  would  make  life  just 
perfect." 

"I'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind!  I  enjoyed  your  good- 
looking  foreigner's  music  and  society,  but  if  he  thinks  you 
are  going  to  be  my  heiress,  he  is  greatly  mistaken.  I  will 
never  consent  to  such  a  marriage." 

"He  never  thought  of  such  a  thing." 

"Oh,  didn't  he?"  Mrs.  Bullock  imitated  her  niece's 
voice  of  incredulity.  "Didn't  he  just!  If  he  knew  that 
you  were  penniless  and  had  thought  that  I  should  be  fool 
enough,  he  would  probably  have  proposed  to  the  aunt  and 
not  to  the  niece.  You  have  played  a  clever,  deceitful  game, 
Christine,  but  I  can  play  another.  I  hold  the  trump  card 
in  my  hand." 

Christine  was  an  extraordinarily  sweet-tempered  girl, 
but  her  aunt's  vulgar  methods  of  showing  her  disapproval 
of  her  engagement  roused  her  worst  spirit.  She  could  be 
very  stubborn ;  there  was  a  pigheaded  Scots  determination 
in  her  gentle  disposition. 

"I  have  done  nothing  deceitful,"  she  said  coldly. 
"People  do  not  generally  make  love  in  public,  nor  do 


146  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

make  girls  remarkable  by  showing  their  intentions  to  the 
world  at  large.  As  soon  as  he  asked  me  to  marry  him,  I 
came  to  tell  you.  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  that  you  did 
not  really  like  him?  It  is  you  who  were  deceitful." 

Christine's  anger  quieted  her  aunt,  who  had  seldom  seen 
the  girl  in  that  cold  determined  attitude. 

"Don't  be  rude,  Christine!  I  found  him  amusing.  He 
is  always  polite,  he  has  charming  manners  with  strangers. 
But  just  you  wait!  If  you  are  foolish  enough  to  marry 
him,  you  will  see  how  quickly  those  good  manners  will 
change.  Wait  until  the  glamour  of  his  passion  has  worn 
off,  wait  until  his  quick  brain  finds  you  a  bore !  You'll  see 
who's  right  then." 

"These  are  the  prejudices  people  had  when  communica- 
tion with  other  countries  was  so  restricted  that  we  knew 
nothing  about  any  European  peoples,  when  every 
'foreigner,'  as  you  call  Count  Zarano,  was  a  villain,  and 
only  British  people  possessed  any  moral  qualities." 

"I  trust  no  foreigners.  They  amuse  me,  their  music  is 
generally  better  than  ours;  but  I  wouldn't  trust  any  man 
or  woman  east  of  the  Rhine,  and  very  few  Frenchmen  at 
that." 

"Andrea's  ways  are  our  ways.  He  has  neither  foreign 
accents  nor  habits ;  he  loves  English  people." 

"It's  no  use  arguing,  Christine.  And  you  are  talking 
nonsense.  Not  a  foreigner!  No  Anglo-Saxon  kisses  a 
lady's  hand  when  he  bids  her  good-night  or  good-bye.  I 
brought  you  to  Sicily  and  I  am  responsible  for  you  while 
you  are  here.  I  will  take  you  back  to  London — men  are  so 
tiresome  in  this  country." 

"What  do  you  expect  me  to  do  in  England?" 

"What  you  used  to  do,  of  course !    Don't  be  silly !" 

"I  cannot  now  go  on  living  with  you." 

"You  won't  live  with  me  ?    Why  not,  pray  ?" 

"Because  you  disapprove  of  my  lover  and  I  mean  to 
marry  him  just  as  soon  as  ever  I  can." 

"Well,  upon  my  word,  I  should  like  to  shake  you.     A 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  147 

chit  of  a  thing  like  you  talking  to  me  like  that!  Go  to 
your  bed  and  wake  up  with  more  sense  and  manners !  Not 
live  with  me,  indeed !" 

"Before  I  go  let  me  tell  you  this :  I  am  entirely  free ;  you 
have  no  legal  right  to  control  my  doings  and  I  mean  to 
marry  whom  I  choose.  Good-night." 

Christine  turned  her  back  on  her  aunt  and  walked  away 
quickly.  Mrs.  Bullock  looked  at  the  indignant  girl  as  if 
she  had  never  seen  her  before.  The  tomboy  had  turned 
into  an  angry,  defiant  woman,  a  woman  whose  will  she 
recognized  for  the  first  time. 

Christine  reached  her  roam  with  flaming  cheeks  and  a 
panting  heart.  She  went  straight  to  the  big  open  window. 
She  had  hated  talking  to  her  aunt  in  such  a  fashion,  for 
she  had  been  kind  to  her  after  a  manner,  and  Christine  had 
been  brought  up  to  reverence  and  obey  people  who  were 
older  than  herself. 

The  night  was  beautiful,  its  stillness  profound,  the 
mystery  of  sleeping  Sicily  surrounded  the  hotel.  The 
scent  from  the  garden,  which  was  illuminated  by  a  million 
stars,  was  wafted  past  her  as  she  stood,  framed  by  the 
window,  gazing  into  the  heavens. 

"Oh,  moon  and  stars !"  she  said.  "I  have  just  been 
given  eyes !  You  are  a  thousand  times  more  wonderful 
than  you  ever  were  before !  Oh,  flowers,  your  scent  is  ten 
times  sweeter!"  She  stepped  out  on  to  the  balcony  to  give 
herself  more  completely  to  the  sensuous  silence.  She  had 
learnt  the  joy  of  surrender.  Sicily  enfolded  her  in  a  lover's 
embrace.  After  her  aunt's  vulgar  scolding  its  tenderness 
quieted  her  nerves. 

"I  cannot  and  will  not  go  back  to  London,"  she  said. 
"I  just  won't  go  back  and  dress  up  and  undress  four  times 
a  day  for  all  the  London  seasons  in  the  world !  One  season 
of  it  was  more  than  enough  for  a  lifetime!" 

Her  thoughts  travelled  from  London  to  the  future.  Her 
aunt  was  soon  forgotten.  Her  home  was  to  be  in  Athens, 
in  Egypt,  and  in  the  desert  of  Southern  Tunisia.  She  drew 


148  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

in  her  breath.  Footsteps  were  coming  near  her  balcony. 
She  listened.  They  had  drawn  nearer. 

It  was  Andrea.  She  could  see  him ;  he  was  carrying 
some  white  roses. 

He  stopped  under  her  balcony.  She  peeped  eagerly 
through  the  iron  bars  of  its  floor;  she  could  see  him.  He 
was  laying  the  roses  on  the  ground  beneath  her  balcony, 
Sicilian  roses  with  large  loose  petals. 

Christine  sighed.  Love  was  so  wonderful.  It  was  ex- 
hausting her. 

The  Count  walked  slowly  away.  It  was  the  second  time 
that  Christine,  unobserved,  had  watched  him  perform  an 
act  which  was  to  affect  the  whole  current  of  her  life.  He 
was  her  devout  lover.  Her  aunt's  words  were  blown  from 
her  mind  like  chaff  before  the  wind. 


PART  II 
CHAPTER  XVII 

TEN  YEARS  L.ATER 

IN  the  island  of  Ischia,  which  lies  within  a  short  distance 
of  Naples  and  Capri,  a  cloud-burst  had  wiped  out  a  village 
which  lay  in  one  of  the  ravines  on  a  volcanic  mountain. 
Isola  d'Ischia  is  almost  all  mountains,  with  blue  and  white 
and  pink  villages  clinging  like  limpets  to  their  sea-washed 
cliffs  or  climbing  their  precipitous  heights. 

The  morning  after  the  storm  the  Island  lay  sparkling 
like  a  jewel  in  the  sea;  the  sky  was  cloudless,  the  air  was 
clean  and  invigorating.  There  was  nothing  to  suggest  the 
tragedy  of  the  night  before.  The  storm  had  burst  after 
nightfall,  that  sudden  nightfall  of  the  South,!  which  had 
ended  an  ominous  and  depressing  day. 

The  inhabitants  of  Casamicciola,  one  of  the  largest  towns 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  149 

in  the  Island,  were  watching  a  small  steamer  plying  across 
the  water  and  heading  directly  for  their  port,  which  forms 
the  lower  portion  of  the  town.  It  was  not  the  customary 
hour  for  the  arrival  of  the  boat  from  Naples;  but  it  was 
bringing  food  and  comforts  for  the  homeless  and  a  very 
important  visitor  to  the  scene  of  the  tragedy.  The  village 
which  had  been  washed  down  the  mountain  side  as  if  it  had 
been  built  of  cards,  lay  right  above  the  higher  town  of 
Casamicciola. 

It  was  absurd  to  think  that  comforts  and  aid  were  needed 
for  anyone  living  on  the  island,  which  must  have  looked  to 
the  people  on  the  steamer  like  an  earthly  Eden.  Golden 
nespoli,  juicy  and  ripe,  showed  above  whitewashed  walls 
which  protected  orange  orchards  and  chestnut  groves. 
From  the  boat  they  must  have  seen  oleander  arbours  offer- 
ing delicious  shelter  from  the  sun  and  smelt  the  scent  of  a 
hundred  blossoms  which  love  Southern  soil  and  fierce  sun- 
light. 

One  man  on  the  white  steamer  was  straining  his  eyes  to 
get  the  first  glimpse  of  these  familiar  scenes.  He  had  not 
visited  the  island  since  he  was  a  lad,  but  he  remembered 
every  feature  of  it.  The  strong  Saracen  towers  built  to 
guard  the  coast  from  the  sudden  attacks  of  the  daring  Cor- 
sairs; the  mosque-shaped  churches,  with  their  cupolas  of 
bright  tiles ;  the  flat-roofed  houses,  the  round  loggias  and 
outside  stairs ;  the  fishing  villages,  pink  and  blue  and  white, 
which  sheltered  under  the  cliffs — all  these  things  were 
dearly  familiar  to  his  eyes. 

When  the  boat  put  into  the  pier,  there  was  a  rush  to  the 
gangway.  Everyone  wished  to  be  the  first  to  see  the 
famous  Cavaliere,  the  "millionario,"  the  benefactor  of  the 
island.  When  they  caught  sight  of  him  and  met  the  bright 
smile  with  which  he  received  their  welcome,  a  cry  went  up. 
Every  man,  woman  and  child  shouted:  "Viva  Salvatore 
Mazzini!  Viva  il  Cavaliere!  Welcome  to  Ischia!" 

The  three  black-coated  and  black-gloved  citizens  in 
attendance  followed  him  closely;  they  were  jealous  of  their 


150  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

official  privilege  and  not  a  little  impatient  at  the  delay  on 
the  pier  caused  by  the  people. 

Salvatore  Mazzini  loved  every  smile  and  expression  of 
sympathy  which  he  received;  he  would  much  rather  have 
walked  with  the  people  up  the  steep  path  to  the  high  town. 
But  it  had  been  arranged  by  the  municipality  that  he  was 
to  be  driven  from  the  port  up  to  the  town,  no  distance  at 
all,  so  he  willingly  complied.  To  be  seated  in  an  old  cab 
behind  a  tired  horse,  is  always  considered  a  more  dignified 
mode  of  travelling  in  Italy  than  walking.  Every  step  of 
the  way  was  full  of  meaning  for  him.  His  quick  eyes  saw 
the  smallest  details  with  the  rapidity  of  a  searchlight. 
His  loquacious  companions  did  not  know  that  he  was  near- 
ing  his  grandmother's  cottage,  the  cottage  which  he  had 
lived  in  as  a  little  child,  that  his  whole  interest  for  the  time 
being  was  centred  on  it. 

When  they  reached  it  he  saw  a  woman  standing  on  the 
doorstep.  The  sun  was  blinding  her  eyes,  so  she  was 
screening  them  with  her  two  hands.  Her  personality — or 
magnetism,  or  who  can  say  what? — made  Salvatore  Maz- 
zini look  at  her  intently,  rather  than  at  his  grandmother's 
house. 

As  the  horse  stopped,  at  his  request,  the  woman  dropped 
her  hands,  her  arms  fell  to  her  sides  and  for  one  moment 
Salvatore  Mazzini,  Ischia's  illustrious  visitor,  gazed 
straight  into  the  eyes  of  Christine  Lovat — now  Christine 
Zarano. 

It  was  only  for  a  moment,  for  the  horse  went  on  again  at 
a  brave  pace,  but  it  was  long  enough  to  disturb  the  mil- 
lionaire's mind  and  completely  drive  out  of  it  the  answers 
which  he  ought  to  have  given  to  the  black-coated  individ- 
uals at  his  side.  Fleeting,  indefinite,  and  wholly  unsatis- 
factory thoughts  and  conjectures  leaped  through  his  mind. 

If  the  woman's  eyes  were  curiously  like  the  eyes  of  La 
Primavera,  if  her  hair  was  the  same  as  the  hair  of  the  girl 
who  had  come  into  his  cottage  like  the  breath  of  Spring 
and  had  captured  his  heart  for  all  time,  they  must  belong 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  151 

to  someone  who  by  strange  chance  happened  to  be  La 
Primavera's  double.  The  girl  whom  he  had  worshipped 
was  a  woman  now  and  a  Contessa — not  a  cottager  of  Ischia. 

The  horse,  urged  on  by  the  driver,  beat,  beat,  beat  its 
iron  shoes  against  the  unyielding  stones.  The  three  figures 
in  black  told  the  dreaming  Cavaliere  some  more  particulars 
about  the  disaster  of  the  previous  night.  They  also  de- 
scribed to  him  the  improvements  which  had  been  made 
through  his  generosity  to  the  sulphur  baths. 

With  an  effort  the  Cavaliere  brought  his  wandering 
mind  back  to  the  object  of  his  visit  to  the  island.  He  gave 
himself  up  to  the  wishes  of  the  people.  He  had  come  to 
visit  his  mother's  early  home  and  to  do  what  he  could  to 
alleviate  the  suffering  of  the  homeless,  so  it  mattered  very 
little  to  him  what  he  did  with  his  time.  If  it  pleased  the 
simple  people  to  make  a  fuss  about  him,  he  supposed  he 
must  endure  it.  Millionaires  did  not  visit  Ischia  every  day. 

A  few  hours  later  he  was  conducted  to  the  scene  of  the 
tragedy.  He  had  of  course  seen  many  devastations  caused 
by  Nature,  but  none  so  intimate  or  pathetic  as  the  ruin  of 
this  little  hamlet,  which  lay  in  all  its  nakedness  asking  for 
succour.  Not  one  stone  was  left  standing  upon  another — 
it  is  true  that  there  were  few  houses  built  of  stone — no 
saint's  shrine,  by  Divine  care,  had  been  saved;  no  altar  to 
the  God  Whose  ways  are  inscrutable  was  left  unwrecked. 
Sodom  and  Gomorrah  had  not  been  more  completely  ruined. 

And  what  was  their  offence? — these  humble  toilers  in  the 
mountain  vineyards  who  worked  so  hard  and  were  contented 
with  so  little. 

There  were  still  visible  portions  of  broken  tables  and 
chairs,  and  twisted  iron  bedsteads,  under  the  lathe  and 
plaster  and  cheap  building  materials  of  the  devastated 
homes.  Burst  straw  mattresses  ruined  by  water,  fine  cop- 
per pots  and  pans  bruised  and  beaten  beyond  any  possible 
use,  lay  with  mocking  intimacy  under  the  glorious  blue  of 
a  southern  sky. 


152 

Salvatore  Mazzini  knew  the  daily  lives  of  these  patient 
peasants,  whose  homes  had  been  so  ruthlessly  destroyed. 
He  knew  their  thrift  and  industry,  their  childish  enjoyment 
of  the  humblest  festivities.  And  as  he  went  over  the  ruins 
of  their  village  he  asked  himself  again  and  again,  Why  had 
they  been  so  cruelly  punished? 

At  one  spot  where  the  wreck  of  property  seemed  more 
complete  than  in  any  other,  he  came  upon  the  woman  whom 
he  had  seen  standing  at  the  door  of  his  grandmother's  cot- 
tage. There  was  no  mistaking  the  tall  slim  figure,  or  the 
golden  hair.  She  was  with  an  elderly  woman,  they  were 
obviously  searching  for  some  small  treasure.  The  water  in 
the  stream  which  had  done  so  much  damage  had  subsided; 
there  was  now  only  a  little  running  down  the  centre  of  the 
narrow  channel. 

Cavaliere  Mazzini  asked  his  companions  if  they  knew  the 
name  of  the  fair-haired  woman.  When  he  had  found  out 
all  that  they  could  tell  him  about  her,  he  pointed  to  her  and 
said: 

"Let  us  go  and  see  what  they  are  looking  for." 

When  they  arrived  at  the  spot  he  was  too  shy  to  address 
Christine.  What  his  companions  had  told  him  had  set  his 
senses  dancing ;  the  years  seemed  to  have  rolled  back. 

"Si,  Signore,  I  have  lost  all,"  the  woman  said  in  answer 
to  his  question. 

"But  what  is  the  particular  object  you  are  trying  to 
find  ?  I  should  like  to  help  you." 

"No,  no,  Signore,  not  you !" 

"Ma!  Signora,  why  not?  I  am  strong,  I  have  worked 
hard,  I  can  work  again.  Tell  me  what  am  I  to  look  for?" 

"No,  no,  Signore!"  The  woman  looked  distressed. 
"The  illustrissimo  Cavaliere  must  not  dirty  his  hands. 
Ma  grazie,  Signore,  grazie." 

The  Cavaliere  laughed.  "Must  not  dirty  my  hands  in- 
deed !  Donna  mia,  as  a  youth  I  spent  all  my  days  digging 
amongst  ruins  and  discovering  bxiried  treasures." 

"Truly,  Signore?"     The  woman  smiled.     Her  dark  eyes 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  153 

looked  at  his  searchingly;  they  appraised  the  value  of 
almost  every  article  of  clothing  he  wore.  "You  worked 
with  your  hands  when  you  were  young?" 

"Veramente,  Signora."  He  turned  as  he  spoke  to  the 
'foreigner,'  as  his  black-coated  informants  had  called 
Christine.  She  too  was  dressed  in  black  and  her  clothing 
would  have  cost  no  more  than  the  peasant-woman's  with 
whom  she  was  working.  "You  may  perhaps  recall  that 
fact,  Signora,"  he  said,  "if  you  can  remember  long  ago 
coming  to  a  little  house  in  Girgenti  and  asking  a  young 
man  if  he  could  sell  you  a  Venus?" 

Before  he  had  finished  speaking  Christine's  two  hands 
went  out  to  him. 

"Ah,  I  thought  so!  I  hoped  so!"  she  said.  "You  are 
the  same  Salvatore  Mazzini — I  was  almost  certain  you 
were,  and  yet  I  could  scarcely  believe  my  eyes." 

"La  Primavera,"  he  said  gravely,  "the  same  Primavera 
after  all  these  years !"  In  the  old  days — what  would  he 
not  have  given  to  touch  the  hands  he  now  held  so  firmly  in 
his  own?  The  years  rolled  back  and  Salvatore  saw  her,  the 
ideal  of  his  dreams  and  hopes,  all  robed  again  in  the 
glamour  of  youth. 

Embarrassment  hurried  Christine  into  speech.  "This 
poor  woman  has  lost  her  most  valued  treasure,"  she  said 
nervously.  "I  was  helping  her  to  look  for  it."  Her 
words,  intentionally  or  otherwise,  destroyed  the  intimacy  of 
silence. 

"What  has  she  lost?  Can  we  replace  it?  I  want  to  help 
in  every  possible  way." 

Christine  shook  her  head. 

"One  of  those  unbuyable  treasures  which  show  us  the 
poverty  of  wealth?"  he  said.  He  turned  to  the  woman  and 
pointed  to  the  ruins.  "Let  us  look  for  it,  Signora,  but  first 
tell  me  what  it  is." 

"A  picture  of  my  son,  Signore,  and  the  image  of  the 
Madonna  of  Pompeii.  When  the  sacred  image  was  brought 
to  the  island  many  years  ago,  I  took  my  son  to  the  shrine ; 


154.  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

he  was  cured  instantly  of  the  affliction  which  was  killing 
him.  When  he  grew  to  be  a  man  he  gave  me  a  beautiful 
image  of  the  Blessed  Madonna;  I  have  treasured  it  ever 
since.  My  son  is  in  South  America,  Signore ;  he  will  never 
come  back  if  I  fail  to  find  the  blessed  image."  Tears 
poured  down  the  woman's  face;  she  threw  up  her  arms  to 
the  blue  heavens. 

"Don't  despair,  Signora,  or  forget  the  goodness  of  St. 
Anthony.  Have  you  asked  his  help?" 

"Santo  Dio !  But  I  have  behaved  like  a  heathen — I  have 
indeed  forgotten  the  blessed  martyrs."  A  rosary  made 
from  polished  carob  seeds  slipped  through  her  fingers  as 
she  petitioned  the  blessed  St.  Anthony  to  help  her.  While 
she  was  praying  Salvatore  turned  eagerly  to  Christine. 

Words  failed  him.  They  stood  looking  at  each  other  in 
an  embarrassed  silence  while  a  thousand  and  one  questions 
passed  through  their  minds.  At  last  Christine  made  a 
commonplace  remark ;  she  remembered  Zita. 

"How  is  your  sister,  Cavaliere  Mazzini?  I  remember 
her  so  well." 

"Zita  is  very  well,  thank  you,  and  very  busy.  The  years 
have  dealt  kindly  with  her,  Contessa." 

"She  is  married?" 

Salvatore  shook  his  head.  "She  is  still  my  faithful 
'donna  di  servizio';  we  live  together  just  as  of  old." 

Surprise  brightened  Christine's  face.  "But  you,  Cava- 
liere .  .  .  you  .  .  .  have  you  ...  do  you  mean, 
you  have  not  married?" 

Salvatore  threw  back  his  head  in  the  old  classic  way. 
"No,  Contessa,"  he  said,  "I  have  found  too  much  to  do  to 
get  married.  My  business  has  been  my  wife  and  I  have 
found  her  a  most  exacting  one." 

"But  you  were  an  antiquarian  and  an  artist." 

"Ah,  Contessa    .    .    ." 

Christine  held  up  her  hand.  "Please  not  'Contessa' — I 
have  renounced  that." 

The  man  smiled.    Then  seeing  the  gravity  of  the  delicate 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  155 

face,  which  had  more  real  beauty  in  its  pathos  than  ever  it 
had  in  its  youthful  gaiety,  his  expression  changed.  "You 
have  renounced  the  title,  Signora?" 

"Life  has  completely  changed  our  positions,  Cavaliere. 
You  were  poor  and  hardworking  while  I  was  idle  and  rich. 
.  .  ."  She  paused.  "Or  rather,  my  aunt  was."  She 
cast  her  eyes  round  the  tragic  scene.  "To-day  you  come 
to  this  scene  of  tragedy  as  a  saviour  and  benefactor;  you 
are  rich  and  important.  I  am  a  worker  and  a  very  poor 
woman."  She  looked  away  from  him  as  she  added,  "I  be- 
lieve I'm  indebted  to  you  for  all  the  money  I  earn." 

"Signora    .    .    .     ?" 

"I  am  one  of  the  trained  masseuses  at  the  baths.  I  am 
known  here  as  Nurse  Smith — or  Smitt,  as  the  people  pro- 
nounce it." 

She  looked  up.  Their  eyes  met.  His  were  full  of  ad- 
miration and  tenderness.  To  a  remarkable  extent  the  old 
Christine,  La  Primavera,  was  standing  before  him,  speak- 
ing to  him  as  she  had  spoken  when  she  had  almost  de- 
manded him  to  sell  her  a  Venus.  Time  had  but  added  a 
womanly  charm  to  the  girl  who  had  lived  in  his  thoughts 
like  a  bright  flame  for  ten  years. 

There  was  no  time  for  more  conversation  for  the  three 
black  coats,  which  at  his  request  had  left  him  to  examine 
the  ruins  by  himself,  had  returned.  They  monopolised  him. 

After  a  voluble  discussion  it  was  decided  that  he  should 
return  with  them  to  the  town,  where  a  deputation  was  wait- 
ing to  present  him  with  an  address. 

"I  wish  to  speak  to  that  poor  woman  who  is  looking  for 
a  precious  image.  I  will  come  with  you  in  five  minutes." 

As  he  turned  to  speak  to  the  woman  he  saw  Christine 
holding  up  something  in  her  hands.  As  she  did  so,  she 
called  out: 

"Ecco  Signora,  e  trovato." 

She  was  kneeling  amongst  the  debris,  close  to  the  edge 
of  the  stream. 

Again  Salvatore  heard  her  call  out,  "Signora  Coppa, 


156  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

I've  found  it!  It's  quite  whole — look!"  She  held  up  a 
small  ironbound  box ;  it  had  been  lodged  against  a  scaldino, 
which  was  half  buried  in  the  mud  of  the  river.  The  image 
was  still  inside  it. 

"Brava!  Brava!"  the  woman  said,  as  she  threw  up  her 
eyes  to  the  heavens.  "Grazie  a  Dio !  Grazie  a  Dio !" 

When  Salvatore  put  some  francs  into  her  hand,  he  said : 
"Our  good  friend  St.  Anthony  does  not  like  to  be  forgot- 
ten, Signora.  He  was  only  waiting." 

The  woman  clasped  the  image  to  her  breast.  "Even 
with  no  home,  and  nothing  to  call  my  own,  I  have  much  to 
be  thankful  for.  Your  heart  is  all  for  the  poor,  Signore. 
It  is  uncuore  d'oro." 

Salvatore  smilled.  The  woman  was  in  deadly  earnest. 
"Addio,  Signora  Coppa,"  he  said,  "you  shall  have  a  home 
again  and  plenty  to  call  your  own  very  soon.  The  world  is 
full  of  kind  hearts." 

The  woman's  flow  of  gratitude  was  so  unending  that  he 
had  to  leave  her  before  she  had  half  finished  her  eloquent 
expressions  of  relief  and  thanksgiving. 

To  Christine  he  said  formally :  "I  was  once  deprived  of 
a  great  privilege;  to  make  up  for  that  disappointment, 
which  at  the  time  was  a  very  great  one,  may  I  have  the 
pleasure  of  calling  upon  you  before  I  leave  the  island?" 

Christine  laughed — it  was  her  old  ringing  laugh.  "Of 
course  you  may.  But  please  remember  that  you  are  Ischia's 
distinguished  visitor;  everything  you  do  is  of  importance. 
You  are  now  'the  millionaire  Mazzini';  your  old  friend 
Christine  Lovat  is  a  working  woman." 

"La  Primavera — that  is  what  I  called  you."  He  smiled, 
as  though  he  were  visualising  the  past. 

"Zita  told  me  you  called  me  that.  Well,  I  am  autumn 
now."  She  tried  to  laugh  lightly. 

He  shook  his  head.  "To  Zita  and  myself  you  are 
sempre  Primavera,  sempre  sorridente,  sempre  allegra, 
sempre  rosea." 

"That  was  ten  years  ago,  Cavaliere  Mazzini.     Since  you 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  157 

gave  me  my  first  lesson  in  Greek  art  much  water  has  flowed 
under  the  bridge." 

"Much  has  happened  in  ten  years,  Signora."  His  eyes 
rejected  the  insinuation  that  she  had  changed.  "But  I 
must  say  good-bye.  May  I  call  on  you?  Permit  me, 
Signora." 

"If  you  can  spare  the  time,  I  shall  be  delighted."  She 
held  out  her  hand.  In  the  old  days  she  would  not  have 
offered  him  her  hand — the  thought  passed  through  her 
mind  as  he  held  it.  "In  the  midst  of  all  this  tragedy,"  she 
said  shyly,  "meeting  you  has  been  a  great  pleasure  and 
surprise.  My  life  is  very  uneventful." 

The  next  moment  she  found  herself  standing  alone 
amongst  the  ruins,  smiling  and  recalling  happy  thoughts 
of  her  girlish  admiration  for  him  and  her  interest  in  his 
work.  Certainly  wealth  had  not  vulgarised  him,  as  wealth 
vulgarises  so  many  self-made  Italians.  He  had  now  the 
simplicity  and  dignity  of  a  great  man. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THAT  same  evening  after  sundown  Christine  heard  a  knock 
at  her  door.  Her  eyes  brightened  as  she  rose  to  answer  it. 

"So  you  have  come?"  she  said  gaily.  "This  is  indeed 
an  honour !  How  nice  of  you !" 

"Please,  Signora,  don't  say  that." 

"But  it  is  nice  of  the  popular  idol  of  the  hour  to  find 
time  to  come  to  my  quiet  little  home.  Do  come  in." 

"May  I?"  In  the  same  breath  he  said,  "Oh,  how 
charming !" 

Christine's  cottage  was  indeed  charming  in  its  humble 
way.  Wild  flowers  in  copper  water-jars  gave  it  a  fresh  and 
homely  air,  and  the  few  pieces  of  furniture  had  been  well 
and  carefully  chosen.  Nothing  in  it  had  cost  her  more 
than  a  few  lire,  but  the  things  had  once  belonged  to  people 


158  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

of  refinement.  There  was  somehow  an  English  air  about 
the  room  which  Salvatore  felt  at  once. 

As  he  said,  "How  charming!"  Christine  smiled  happily. 
"I'm  glad  you  like  it,"  she  said.  "It  is  very  easy  to  make 
a  small  house  look  pretty  in  this  climate  and  in  a  country 
where  old  furniture  costs  so  absurdly  little." 

"Yet  how  few  such  homes  do  we  see !" 

"If  you  have  any  time  to  spare  for  a  talk,  Cavaliere,  do 
sit  down." 

"The  evening  is  my  own,"  he  said.  "I  have  got  through 
all  my  duties." 

They  were  speaking  in  English,  a  fact  which  Christine 
had  not  noticed,  for  Salvatore  had  addressed  her  in  English 
from  the  first.  He  spoke  it  now  as  well  as  she  did  her- 
self. 

"It  has  been  a  terrible  disaster.  Your  coming  has 
delighted  the  people." 

"Poor  things!  They  were  so  brave  and  philosophical! 
How  typically  Italian  the  whole  thing  has  been !  Do  you 
know,  until  I  came  here  I  had  not  realised  how  different  my 
life  has  become." 

Christine's  eyes  answered  his.  They  said  to  her,  "Pic- 
ture my  old  life — contrast  the  me  of  to-day  with  the  me  of 
ten  years  ago."  She  had  been  doing  so  ever  since  he  had 
spoken  to  her  in  the  morning,  amidst  the  ruins  of  the 
devastated  village. 

"They  will  build  another  village  in  the  same  place?" 
she  said.  "That  is  what  is  so  surprising.  You  know,  I 
suppose,  that  the  whole  of  Casamicciola  was  destroyed  in 
1881  and  again  in  1883?  More  than  a  thousand  lives 
were  lost." 

"Yes,  I  know.  The  last  was  a  hideous  disaster."  He 
sighed,  and  then  said  musingly,  "It  is  a  tragic  little  island. 
It  seems  to  me  that  there  may  be  some  truth  in  the  legend 
that  the  Giant  Typhoeus  lies  buried  under  these  mountains, 
just  as  Encaeladus  lies  under  Mount  Etna.  Periodically  he 
heaves  up  his  mighty  shoulders,  and  that  is  the  result." 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  159 

"Can't  he  be  'laid'  as  we  'lay'  our  ghosts  in  Scotland?" 
Christine  smiled. 

Salvatore  threw  back  his  head.  "Perhaps,  if  you  pro- 
pitiate Jupiter — he  it  was  who  imprisoned  him." 

"You  know  the  Island  well?"  Christine  said.  "Didn't 
your  mother  live  here?" 

"Yes,  she  lived  at  Lacco.  But  how  wonderful  of  you  to 
have  remembered!  This  was  my  grandmother's  cottage, 
when  she  was  a  widow ;  I  stayed  here  as  a  little  boy." 

"How  extraordinary!  In  this  very  cottage?"  A  wave 
of  colour  dyed  Christine's  cheek.  Why  had  she  thought  it 
extraordinary. 

"Yes.  That  is  why  I  made  the  cab  stop  at  the  door  for 
a  moment  this  morning;  I  was  looking  at  the  house  and 
then  I  saw  you." 

Their  eyes  met  nervously.  "And  you  knew  me?" 
Christine  spoke  softly. 

"I  saw  someone  whom  I  knew  must  be  your  double  if  it 
were  not  you."  He  hesitated  before  he  said,  "I  don't 
suppose  you  recognized  me?  Of  course  you  wouldn't.  The 
old  Girgenti  days  did  not  mean  to  you  all  that  they  weant 
to  me.  My  life  at  that  time  was  so  uneventful." 

"Oh,  but  I  remember  everything  about  those  old  days. 
This  afternoon  after  you  had  left  me  everything  that  hap- 
pened at  Girgenti  passed  before  my  eyes  in  the  sunlight, 
just  like  film-pictures." 

Her  eyes  dropped;  she  looked  confused.  The  memory 
of  the  urns  brought  a  trace  of  stiffness  into  her  manner; 
her  husband  had  told  her  about  Salvatore's  act  of  dis- 
honesty. After  she  knew  it  she  had  never  desired  to  visit 
his  cottage  again. 

"I  remember  one  thing  that  you  will  have  forgotten — 
you  promised  to  come  to  the  museum  if  your  aunt  would 
let  you  .  .  ."  he  paused.  "Well,  you  never  came." 

She  looked  up ;  his  eyes  banished  her  suspicion.  She  was 
sure  now  that  the  story  about  the  urns  had  been  one  of  her 
husband's  many  lies.  "I  remember  quite  well.  I  had  to 


160  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

go  to  church  with  my  aunt.  How  cross  I  was !  It  wasn't 
my  fault." 

"Is  she  alive?"  he  asked. 

Christine  shook  her  head.  "I  don't  know.  I  am  dead, 
to  her,  at  any  rate." 

"Ah,  Signora !" 

"I  married  against  her  wishes." 

"The  Conte  Zarano?" 

"Yes,  'il  Signore,'  as  Zita  used  to  call  him."  Her  voice 
suggested  shame  and  suffering;  she  shrank  from  the 
memory  of  her  folly. 

"Gia,  gia."     Salvatore  lost  himself  in  thought. 

"That  is  why  I  live  here  quite  cut  off  from  my  old  life. 
I  couldn't  live  like  this  in  England ;  Italy  is  the  only  coun- 
try where  poverty  means  refinement;  in  most  places  it  is 
degrading  and  unlovely." 

Salvatore's  eyes  spoke  to  her.  His  words  meant  little  at 
the  moment.  The  mere  mention  of  her  marriage  had  built 
up  a  wall  between  them. 

"Poverty  means  simplicity  in  this  wonderful  climate. 
But  generally  speaking,  it  is  nonsense  to  talk  about  'the 
refining  influence  of  poverty.'  In  most  countries,  if  it  has 
not  a  degrading  effect,  it  has  a  narrowing  effect  intel- 
lectually, except  in  very  rare  cases.  Genteel  poverty  such 
as  you  get  in  England  is  mere  wretchedness." 

"The  mind  becomes  a  thrift  machine."  Christine  man- 
aged to  laugh;  the  situation  was  saved,  her  husband  for- 
gotten. "Here  in  the  South  the  sunshine  makes  everyone 
rich  in  a  measure.  Poor  as  I  am,  I  live  with  beauty  all 
day  long ;  I  wear  simple  clothes  and  look  at  glorious  flowers 
and  views.  In  London  I  used  to  wear  beautiful  clothes  and 
look  at  ugly,  smoke-begrimed  houses." 

"You  always  loved  beautiful  things,"  he  said.  "Do  you 
remember  how  disappointed  you  were  because  I  couldn't 
sell  you  a  terracotta  Venus  ?" 

Christine's  old  laugh  echoed  through  the  cottage. 
"Fancy  you  recollecting  that!  Wasn't  I  a  silly  tourist?" 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  161 

She  rose  from  her  chair  and  went  quickly  into  an  inner 
room.  When  she  came  back  she  laid  something  on  the  table 
near  her  visitor's  chair.  "Look — do  you  remember  that?" 

The  Cavaliere  turned  his  chair  round  so  that  he  could 
see  what  she  referred  to. 

"Ah,  Signora,  the  little  casket !    You  have  kept  it !" 

"Yes,  I  have  kept  it  and  used  it  ever  since.  It  holds  all 
my  little  baubles." 

"All  these  years  ?"    His  eyes  caressed  her. 

"Yes,  it  has  gone  with  me  through  good  and  evil  for- 
tune; it  has  known  all  my  joys  and  sorrows." 

"Primavera!"  The  word  was  scarcely  audible,  but 
Christine  heard  it.  "Did  you  ever  guess  that  that  little 
casket  was  the  cause  of  a  lie  ?"  he  smiled  tenderly.  "Would 
you  like  to  know?" 

Christine  became  anxious.  Was  he  going  to  tell  her 
about  the  urns  ?  Was  Andrea's  story  true  ?  Had  the  casket 
also  been  stolen? 

"My  sister  told  the  lie,  Signora.  Yes,  you  can  afford  to 
smile.  There  is  no  need  for  your  grave  expression — it  was 
not  a  very  big  one." 

"She  told  a  lie  about  this  ?"  Christine  held  up  the  casket. 

"Yes.  Zita  wished  me  to  see  you  again ;  she  was  afraid 
I  never  should  if  you  got  the  casket,  so  she  deliberately 
said  what  was  not  true;  she  pretended  the  casket  was  not 
in  the  high  cupboard."  He  smiled.  "Ah,  Signora,  I  re- 
member it  all  so  well — life  held  so  few  great  pleasures  in 
those  days.  Do  you  remember  that  you  had  to  wait  for  the 
casket?" 

"Yes,  it  all  comes  back  to  me.  I  took  Zita  to  a  cake- 
shop — ah,  and  that  reminds  me  she  had  a  secret!  She 
met  a  young  farmer  there;  you  did  not  know  anything 
about  it.  And  she  has  not  married  him?" 

Salvatore's  face  darkened.  "My  sister's  girlish  romance 
was  ruined.  She  was  romantic;  she  is  still  romantic 
.  .  ."  he  paused.  "It  is  strange  how  clearly  all  these 
things  stand  out.  Nothing  has  mattered  so  much  since. 


162  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

But  I  must  not  be  ungracious,  Signora.  We  are  happy, 
and  mortals  must  not  expect  everything  in  life.  Fortune 
has  indeed  smiled  on  my  enterprise."  He  laughed,  but  not 
mirthfully.  "You  would  find  Zita  greatly  changed,  but 
she  has  still  her  simple  nature.  To  me,  she  is  quite 
wonderful." 

"She  was  exquisite  as  I  remember  her.  I  hope  she  has 
not  changed  too  much." 

"Three  years  in  a  convent  school  in  America  have  made 
her  .  .  ."  he  paused  ".  .  .  shall  I  say  a  lady,' 
Signora  ?" 

"There  is  no  need.  Zita  was  always  one;  in  her 
peasant's  dress  she  was  a  lady."  Christine  held  out  her 
skirt.  "I  wear  a  peasant's  dress  now;  I  hope  it  has  not 
made  me  any  less  .  .  .  well,  'ladylike.' ' 

"You  are  laughing  at  me,  Signora,  but  you  know  what 
I  mean.  Zita  in  the  old  days  did  not  aspire  to  being  any- 
thing more  than  a  well-brought-up  peasant  girl.  When  I 
became  well  enough  off  to  afford  the  expense  I  sent  her  to 
a  good  school.  She  has  worked  hard  and  she  has  benefited 
by  the  advantages  which  wealth  threw  in  her  way." 

"Then  you  live  in  America?" 

"My  business  is  there;  we  are  citizens  of  the  world." 
Their  eyes  met.  "I  was  once  a  dilettante,  Signora ;  I  had 
dreams  of  marvellous  things.  So  had  my  father.  Then 
Fate  threw  into  my  hands  a  wonderful  secret,  which  had 
been  waiting  and  waiting  for  a  discoverer." 

"Yes,"  Christine  said.  "Was  it  the  iridescent  glaze  you 
spent  much  time  and  study  upon?  I  remember  you  hoped 
you  might  be  able  to  revive  one  of  the  great  earthenware 
industries,  such  as  Caltagirone  or  Gubbio.  I  have  heard 
your  name  connected  with  Sicilian  pottery." 

"Pottery  is  now  only  my  hobby,  Signora,  the  hobby  of  a 
wealthy  man.  It  could  never  in  these  days  make  a  man's 
fortune." 

"But  you  still  work  at  it?" 

"I  have  a  kiln  and  a  small  bottega  at  Licata.    Last  year 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  163 

some  very  fine  work  was  done.  At  the  Paris  Exhibition 
one  of  our  plates  won  the  Gold  Medal." 

"Have  you  a  bottega  in  America  ?" 

He  threw  back  his  head.  "America !  Signora,  America 
is  the  land  of  machine-made  labour,  a  land  of  labour-saving 
ingenuity.  The  artisan  in  America  does  not  understand 
the  pleasure  our  men  take  in  hand-made  work,  in  the  pro- 
duction of  objects  of  beauty  which  can  only  be  made  by 
patient  hand-labour.  To  American  workmen  factory- 
made  plates  and  vases  are  more  beautiful  than  the  hand- 
made objects,  baked  in  our  small  kilns." 

"Fatto  a  mano!"  Christine  said.  "How  familiar  those 
words  become  in  Italy."  Their  eyes  met  in  sympathy. 

"There  is  sadly  little  that  is  hand-made  in  America, 
Signora.  The  genius  of  the  inventor  seems  to  expend 
itself  on  machines  to  save  hand-labour.  They  kill  artistic 
feeling."  He  smiled  his  peculiarly  gentle  smile.  "There 
is  something  extraordinarily  mechanical  and  hard  about 
life  lived  under  such  circumstances ;  one  misses  the  beautiful 
service  of  those  who  stand  and  wait.  The  poor  do  not 
even  cultivate  their  gardens  because  it  entails  a  certain 
amount  of  hand-labour." 

"Under  such  conditions  life  soon  loses  its  repose  and  sim- 
plicity," Christine  said.  "Here  in  Ischia,  where  wealth  is 
unknown,  labour  never  means  toil." 

"In  New  York  I  can  do  nearly  everything  except  put 
myself  to  bed  by  turning  cranks  or  touching  buttons.  Here 
I  have  smiling  faces  and  willing  hands  in  place  of  electric 
buttons,  caro  paese." 

"In  Ischia  all  those  inventions  would  be  out  of  working 
order  in  a  week's  time."  Christine  laughed. 

"My  dear,  happy-go-lucky,  unmethodical  country!"  he 
said.  "Thank  God  the  people  are  not  yet  too  proud  to  be 
called  servants." 

"Italy  is  beautifully  unsnobbish,"  Christine  said.  "You 
only  get  snobbishness  with  what  we  call  'new  money' — 
people  returned  from  America." 


164  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

"Ah,  Signora !"  the  millionaire  laughed.  "I  am  sure 
that  was  not  meant  personally;  yet  perhaps  the  cap  fits. 
We  do  not  know  ourselves ;  it  is  impossible  to  feel  vulgar." 

"Of  course  it  wasn't  personal,  and  you  know  as  well  as 
I  do  the  sort  of  Italians  and  Sicilians  I  mean.  America 
generally  spoils  them.  But  you  never  told  me  what  your 
'new  money'  comes  from." 

Salvatore  took  up  the  jewel-casket.  "While  I  was 
working  away  with  glazes  and  cements  and  idling  my  time 
over  Attic  red-figured  vases — by  the  way,"  he  said  absently, 
"did  you  know  that  Ischia  served  the  potters  of  Cumae?" 

Christine  shook  her  head ;  her  eyes  expressed  the  interest 
he  had  aroused. 

"Cumae  was  the  oldest  of  the  Greek  colonies  on  the  main- 
land, I  think.  Its  Greek  civilisation  dates  back  to  about 
1500  B.C.  But  Livy  asserts  that  Ischia,  not  Cumae,  was 
the  settlers'  first  landing-place — Pithecusa,  as  it  was  called. 
After  a  time,  for  more  practical  trading  purposes  they 
went  to  the  mainland  and  Cumae  became  the  new  colony. 
But  they  still  got  the  clay  for  their  famous  pottery  from 
the  island." 

Christine's  eyes  smiled  tenderly.  The  millionaire  was 
the  ardent  Salvatore  of  ten  years  ago;  he  had  completely 
forgotten  his  'new  money'  in  his  visualising  of  the  early 
Greek  settlers  in  Ischia.  She  was  interested  in  all  that  he 
told  her,  but  her  more  human  interest  clung  to  the  hope 
that  he  would  not  forget  to  tell  her  how  he  had  acquired 
his  wealth.  Was  his  'new  money'  clean?  Could  he  show 
her  that  the  story  of  the  stolen  urns  was  not  true,  that  his 
wealth  did  not  even  owe  its  foundation  to  dishonesty?  She 
hoped  so. 

"You  have  left  the  story  of  your  own  invention  again," 
she  said  laughingly.  "Please  go  back  to  it — I  was  so 
interested." 

"But  it  is  not  interesting,  Signora,  only  very  common- 
place. I  struck  oil  when  I  was  looking  for  something  else ; 
wealth  came  to  me  through  a  very  practical  discovery — 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  165 

nothing  nearly  so  fascinating  as  Greek  vase-painting  or 
Caltagirone  pottery."  He  sighed,  as  though  his  life  had 
once  been  picturesque ;  now  it  was  merely  luxurious.  "Bene, 
Signora" — he  spoke  in  Italian ;  much  of  his  mother  tongue 
had  slipped  into  their  conversation — "you  know  I  was  also 
interested  in  cement;  the  old  Roman  kind  had  a  great 
attraction  for  me.  It  was  while  I  was  trying  to  rediscover 
the  old  indestructible  article  that  I  discovered  another  even 
more  valuable  one — I  hit  upon  a  thing  for  which  the  world 
has  been  waiting,  Signora,  for  many,  many  years." 

Christine  was  listening  sympathetically. 

"I  stumbled  across  the  secret  of  how  to  make  paint  which 
will  withstand  water.  I  suppose  you  know  that  up  to  a  few 
years  ago,  no  paint  had  been  discovered  which  could  resist 
the  action  of  water?  Ships  and  bridges  had  to  be  painted 
incessantly.  Do  you  know  that  in  your  own  country  a  hun- 
dred men  were  continually  painting  the  Forth  Bridge? 
Think  of  the  labour  that  meant !  They  painted  it  unceas- 
ingly. A  water-resisting  paint  which  would  save  all  that 
labour  and  cost  was  waiting  to  be  discovered." 

"How  clever  of  you  to  have  invented  it !" 

"It  was  chance,  mere  chance,  Signora.  These  useful 
discoveries  are  generally  made  while  the  discoverers  are 
striving  after  something  quite  different.  I  very  much 
doubt  if  Lord  Kelvin  ever  devoted  his  great  genius  to  the 
common  household  tap,  yet  they  say  it  made  his  fortune." 
Salvatore's  eyes  were  travelling  into  the  distance. 

"And  then  what  happened?"  Christine's  face  was  alight 
with  interest.  She  did  not  mean  to  lose  any  of  the  story ; 
she  questioned  him  as  she  had  questioned  the  youth  who 
told  her  how  the  red-figured  Attic  vases  were  painted,  ten 
years  ago. 

"I  was  working  at  the  time  for  an  American ;  the  cement 
which  I  had  discovered  was  useful  to  him,  although  it  was 
not  equal  to  the  Roman  article.  He  financed  the  making 
of  it;  I  drew  a  small  percentage  and  earned  a  fine  salary. 
When  I  hit  upon  the  waterproof  paint  I  had  enough  money 


166  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

to  keep  the  concern  in  my  own  hands ;  but  he  was  extremely 
kind  to  me."  Salvatore  looked  up.  "Now,  Signora,  you 
know  the  foundation  of  my  wealth ;  it  is  a  purely  practical 
one,  not  at  all  romantic — waterproof  paint,  very  'new 
money.'  When  I  was  young,"  he  said  quietly,  "I  never 
imagined  such  wealth." 

Christine  felt  relieved,  foolishly  so.  "And  you  have 
made  it  in  America,  not  in  Italy?" 

"Yes,  in  America.  But  all  my  workmen  are  Italians. 
The  economic  position  of  my  own  country  does  not  allow 
a  poor  man  to  succeed  in  any  commercial  enterprise." 

Christine's  eyes  questioned  him ;  had  he  become  any  less 
ardently  patriotic? 

"In  Italy  business  undertakings  are  taxed  so  outrage- 
ously that  they  cannot  possibly  pay;  sooner  or  later  they 
have  to  close  down.  That  is  why  our  Italian  industries  are 
almost  negative ;  only  the  vast  wealth  of  American  or  Ger- 
man capitalists  can  hold  out,  and  then,"  he  added  em- 
phatically, "only  if  the  business  is  an  exceptionally  paving 
one." 

"Yours  was?" 

"It  could  never  have  flourished  in  Italy." 

"Then  you  have  become  an  American  citizen?" 

"Non  mai,  Signora."  He  spoke  emphatically  and  threw 
back  his  head. 

"But  why?" 

"Because  I  am  an  Italian  and  a  Mazzini." 

Christine  laughed.  "But  America  has  behaved  better  to 
you  than  Italy;  you  owe  something  to  her." 

"Signora,  Sicily  is  my  country ;  I  am  an  Italian." 

"Certainly  I  should  not  like  to  change." 

"Italians  do  not  forget.  They  leave  their  mother  only  to 
return  to  her  with  means  to  help  her.  Germans  become 
Americans,  Slavs  become  Americans,  almost  every  immi- 
grant becomes  an  American,  the  Italian  never.  Our  coun- 
try and  our  families  are  sacred." 

Christine  leant  forward  and  put  her  hand  on  the  little 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  167 

jewel-casket  which  he  was  delicately  fingering.  Her  eyes 
looked  into  his ;  they  were  beautiful  but  very  serious. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  have  told  me  all  this,  so  very  glad, 
amico  mio.  I  wish  I  had  known  it  sooner." 

"Si,  Signora."  He  saw  that  she  could  have  said  more. 
"Tell  me,"  he  spoke  abstractedly. 

"Someone  once  told  me  something  about  you  which  I 
know  now  was  not  true.  It  touched  your  honour.  When 
you  left  me  this  morning  I  began  to  wonder  if  .  .  ."  she 
paused,  ".  .  .  well,  how  can  I  say  it?"  Her  eyes 
smiled,  her  voice  was  apologetic.  ".  .  .  If  your  dollars 
were  clean?  To-day  I  never  doubted  the  fact  until  I  found 
myself  alone,  until  the  old  days  lived  again,  and  I  remem- 
bered how  sad  I  was  when  I  was  told  that  my  first  impres- 
sion of  you  was  incorrect." 

"And  it  was,  Signora    .    .     .?" 

"That  you  were  the  soul  of  honour,  that  you  resisted  the 
most  unusual  temptations.  I  was  very  young  and  impres- 
sionable at  that  time  and  your  life  seemed  to  me  very 
beautiful  and  almost  ideal.  Mine  was  very  conventional 
and  uninteresting;  my  visit  to  you  gave  me  immense 
pleasure." 

"And  then,  Signora?"  the  Cavaliere' s  voice  shook. 
"And  then?" 

"And  then  I  did  not  come  any  more.  I  did  not  wish  to 
come.  My  Sicilian  idyll  was  spoilt;  neither  of  you  were 
what  I  thought  you  were,  or  so  I  was  told." 

"My  sister  too — little  Zita?"  Cavaliere  Mazzini  rose  from 
his  chair.  His  face  was  ashen.  Christine  was  astonished 
at  the  intensity  of  feeling  which  her  words  had  aroused. 
"Was  she  slandered  too?  Did  she  suffer?" 

"Please,  Cavaliere,  don't  think  anything  more  about  it. 
Of  course  it  wasn't  true,  but  I  didn't  know  then  all  that  I 
know  now."  She  paused.  "I  ought  not  to  have  told  you ; 
I  ought  to  have  known  that  it,  like  everything  else,  was 
untrue,  was  false,  was  hideous." 

"Signora     .     .     .?" 


168  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

Salvatore's  one  word  held  a  thousand  meanings.  Chris- 
tine laid  her  fingers  lightly  on  his  arm ;  she  did  it  to  miti- 
gate the  pain  her  words  had  caused  him.  He  let  his  eyes 
rest  on  the  slender,  well-remembered  hands. 

"Life  has  hurt  you,  Primavera — it  has  been  cruel?" 

"No,  Cavaliere,  life  has  not  been  cruel ;  it  was  I  who 
was  foolish.  Life  is  just  what  we  make,  what  we  bring 
to  it.  I  made  mine  hideous  for  five  years;  I  let  misery 
trample  on  me.  Then  I  got  my  back  against  the  wall,  I 
determined  to  fight ;  I  wasn't  going  to  lie  down  under  it." 
She  laughed  unmirthfully.  "I  had  health  and  youth,  and 
now  I  have  many  kind  friends,  and  a  great  capacity  for 
forgetfulness.  Forgetfulnes  is  God's  healing." 

"Signora!  Signora!"  The  Cavaliere's  voice  was 
broken.  "Do  you  know  the  inheritance  of  a  Mazzini,  the 
characteristic  of  my  great  ancestor?  An  inability  to  for- 
get, to  be  faithless  to  an  ideal." 

Christine  became  nervous  under  his  eyes;  the  thoughts 
in  his  mind  were  driven  into  hers. 

"Don't  be  sorry  for  me,  Cavaliere.  I  have  long  ago 
ceased  to  be  sorry  for  myself.  We  can  enjoy  life  in  so 
many  different  ways,  when  we  have  got  over  the  folly  of 
expecting  Heaven  on  earth.  Happiness  may  perhaps  corne 
to  us  if  we  could  give  up  searching  for  it  and  expecting 
it." 

"Ah,  Signora,  Signora!"  He  repeated  the  words  ten- 
derly. She  still  looked  too  fair  and  young  to  have  dis- 
covered such  wisdom. 

"Is  it  not  true,  amico  mio?  I  am  not  speaking  bitterly ; 
I  find  life  very  delightful  in  this  exquisite  island." 

He  grasped  her  hands. 

"You  have  called  me  your  friend,  let  me  prove  myself 
worthy  of  that  honour." 

"I  would  not  have  spoken  to  you  as  I  have  done  if  I  had 
not  felt  a  very  strong  tie  of  friendship.  Isn't  it  true  that 
when  we  are  young  we  cry  for  the  moon;  when  we  get  it 
we  find  it  is  made  of  green  cheese?  It  is  not  the  fault  of 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  169 

the  moon ;  it  has  always  been  made  of  green  cheese,  only  we 
didn't  know  it." 

"To-night's  moon  has  yet  to  come,  Signora ;  to-day  has 
been  made  up  of  miracles.  On  my  arrival  here  I  was  look- 
ing for  my  grandmother's  cottage ;  I  found  you !  When 
I  was  giving  all  my  attention  to  the  disaster,  and  it  was 
not  easy,  I  found  you  again  amongst  the  ruins."  He 
lapsed  into  silence,  while  his  mind  was  visualising  the 
events  of  the  last  ten  years. 

Christine  again  shared  his  thoughts.  Without  one  word 
being  spoken  she  felt  that  during  all  the  years  which  had 
passed  his  memory  of  her  had  meant  a  great  deal  to  him. 
What  he  had  said  about  the  inheritance  of  a  Mazzini  had 
held  a  double  significance.  At  last  she  spoke,  for  the 
sympathetic  silence  into  which  they  had  slipped  had  to  be 
broken. 

"How  strangely  the  wheel  turns !  Ischia  conveyed  noth- 
ing to  me  years  ago  when  you  told  me  you  had  lived  here 
in  your  boyhood,  and  now  I  am  actually  living  in  the  house 
you  used  to  stay  in  with  your  grandmother!  Probably 
she  has  been  very  near  me  all  the  time — perhaps  that  is 
why  I  have  never  felt  lonely.  Does  your  business  ever  take 
you  to  Girgenti?" 

"I  am  going  there  very  soon.  They  will  make  a  great 
fuss  about  me,  Signora.  Money  makes  a  vast  difference! 
I  often  look  back  upon  the  old  days  and  wonder  if  any- 
thing that  is  still  to  come  in  my  life  will  ever  compare  to 
the  dreams  of  my  youth !  As  we  grow  older  we  exchange 
Idealism  for  Materialism." 

"You  are  an  Idealist  still,  Cavaliere;  you  seem  scarcely 
to  have  changed  at  all." 

He  threw  back  his  head.  "Our  ideals  fade  with  our 
youth.  But  I  must  say  good-night,  Signora."  He  held 
out  his  hand.  "You  have  been  very  kind.  To-day  has 
made  the  world  still  more  wonderful." 

"It  is  you  who  have  been  kind,  Cavaliere.  I  have  en- 
joyed your  visit  enormously.  That  is  a  truly  British 


170  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

way  of  expressing  my  feelings,  isn't  it?  Do  you  notice 
when  we  are  talking  in  English  how  rough  and  inelegant 
our  language  is?  When  we  speak  Italian  it  is  quite  ele- 
gant." She  laughed.  "I  have  really  learnt  to  say  many 
pretty  things  in  your  language;  it  is  almost  more  my 
own  than  English  now." 

"I  want  sincere  things,  Signora." 

"Is  sincerity  restricted  to  plain  speech?" 

"In  Italy  insincerity  is  often  disguised  by  beautiful 
language.  I  have  learnt  to  appreciate  English  .  .  ." 
he  paused. 

"That  is  a  polite  way  of  referring  to  the  lack  of  grace 
in  the  English  language,  but  it  is  true  that  always  when 
we  feel  most,  we  become  most  inarticulate.  In  Italy  it  is 
the  reverse;  emotion  lends  an  Italian  eloquence.  English 
people  think  them  insincere." 

"You  are  kind,  Signora." 

"Do  you  remember  how  I  used  to  murder  Italian  ten 
years  ago?" 

"Everything  you  ever  said  to  me  was  charming,  Sig- 
nora." 

"I  thought  we  were  to  be  friends,  Cavaliere !  I  am  still 
Scots  enough  to  dislike  flattery.  You  know  quite  well 
that  ten  years  ago  my  Italian  was  excruciating — there's 
an  adverb  or  an  adjective  or  a  something  for  you,  which 
expresses  the  truth.  I  must  often  have  said  appalling 
things." 

They  laughed  together  happily. 

"I  have  studied  English,  Signora,  and  I  have  spoken 
American  for  many  years."  Christine  smiled  at  the  dis- 
tinction. "I  am  even  familiar  with  American  slang;  I 
could  give  you  lessons  in  it." 

"How  cosmopolitan  you  have  become!  Does  the  old 
Salvatore  ever  pop  out  and  astonish  you?" 

"Tell  me,  Signora,"  he  said  impulsively,  "where  has  the 
old  Salvatore  gone?  I  often  ask  myself  the  question.  Is 
he  roaming  about  Girgenti  dreaming  dreams  and  hugging 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  171 

ideals?  Ah,  Signora,  he  was  an  infinitely  finer  youth  than 
the  materialistic  millionaire,  the  'illustrious  visitor.'  But 
acldio,  addio."  He  tried  to  drag  hmself  away. 

They  were  standing  on  the  rough  road  outside  the  cot- 
tage; it  was  lined  on  either  side  by  white-plastered  walls, 
over  which  a  wealth  of  southern  vegetation  coming  from 
hidden  gardens  hung  like  a  curtain.  Fireflies  were  darting 
like  golden  needles.  The  air  of  the  soft  southern  night 
caressed  them.  A  lovers'  heaven  encircled  Ischia;  from 
end  to  end  it  was  exquisitely  clear  and  tender. 

"Must  it  be  good-bye,  Cavaliere?  When  do  you  leave 
the  island?" 

He  stepped  quickly  back  to  her.  The  night  was  dan- 
gerous. 

"May  I  return,  Signora?    I  did  not  like  to  ask." 

Christine  smiled  at  his  intensity.  "How  much  longer 
are  you  staying  on  the  island?" 

"A  boat  goes  twice  a  day  to  Naples.  It  is  cooler  here; 
I  can  quite  well  do  my  business  in  Naples  and  live  here." 

"The  island  is  delightful,"  she  said,  "at  this  time  of  the 
year.  Look  at  the  stars !"  She  threw  back  her  head.  "I 
have  become  truly  Italian  in  my  worship  of  the  moon  and 
the  stars." 

"Exquisite,  Signora,  exquisite." 

It  was  her  white  throat  and  slim  body  which  he  meant; 
the  stars  in  the  heavens  were  to  frame  her.  Suffering  and 
experience  had  made  Christine  intensely  desirable.  There 
was  still  the  bright  hair,  glittering  and  rebellious,  and  the 
fair  skin ;  but  now  added  to  these  things,  there  was  that 
which  had  been  lacking  in  the  old  Christine.  Exquisite  as 
he  had  thought  the  girl,  Salvatore  knew  that  the  woman  at 
his  side  was  infinitely  more  desirable. 

As  they  stood  together  under  Ischia's  stars,  he  longed 
to  tell  her  how  unconsciously  he  had  waited  for  her  for  all 
those  years.  Other  women  had  amused  him — to  himself  he 
was  no  saint;  but  always  they  had  been  found  wanting. 
He  could  have  knelt  and  kissed  her  feet,  while  the  night 


172  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

etherealised  her.  His  wealth,  for  which  other  women  had 
wooed  him,  was  forgotten ;  his  love  was,  as  his  old  love  had 
been,  exquisitely  humble.  He  was  the  digger  Salvatore, 
she  was  the  'bionda  Inglese,'  the  lady  whose  hands  he  never 
dared  to  shake.  As  he  recalled  the  fact,  he  raised  one  to 
his  lips.  With  a  married  woman,  custom  permitted  it. 

"May  I  return,  Signora?"  His  eyes  entreated  her, 
while  they  troubled  her. 

"Arrivederci,  Cavaliere.  If  you  are  remaining  on  the 
Island  we  shall  surely  meet  again." 

He  dropped  her  hand.     "Arrivederci,  Signora." 

As  he  walked  slowly  up  the  hill  to  his  hotel,  whose  win- 
dows looked  out  upon  a  scene  of  incomparable  beauty  and 
whose  gardens  invited  reverie  and  romance,  his  thoughts 
embraced  the  slender  figure  which  had  turned  abruptly  into 
his  grandmother's  cotage. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  next  day  when  Christine  was  at  work  at  the  Baths 
she  had  to  listen  to  a  great  deal  of  gossip  about  the  mil- 
lionaire. He  was  the  hero  of  the  hour;  his  donations  and 
immediate  help  to  the  suffering  were  the  unending  topics 
of  conversation.  He  was  to  rebuild,  in  a  more  sanitary 
fashion,  almost  every  cottage  which  had  been  destroyed. 

And  he  was  a  man  of  their  Island !  His  good  looks  and 
charm  of  manner  had  of  course  won  all  hearts.  Many 
people  remembered  him  when  he  was  a  little  dark-eyed  boy, 
as  thin  as  a  stick  and  as  beautiful  as  a  child  saint.  His 
mother's  delicate  beauty  was  still  fresh  in  the  memory  of 
the  elderly  women  of  the  island. 

He  was  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  baths  that  morning.  In 
his  speech  of  the  day  before  he  Jiad  said  that  there  was  a 
great  future  in  store  for  the  island,  that  the  baths  must 
again  become  as  renowned  and  popular  as  they  were  in 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  173 

Roman  times.  In  the  opinion  of  experts,  their  waters  had 
curative  powers  excelled  by  none  in  Europe.  Visitors  must 
flock  to  Ischia  for  treatment,  as  they  flocked  to  the  expen- 
sive German  baths,  for  Ischia  had  a  climate  to  offer  invalids 
which  it  was  impossible  to  find  in  countries  further  North 
But  invalids  would  not  come  to  the  island  until  things 
were  conducted  at  the  baths  in  a  more  modern  and  hygienic 
manner.  Italy  was,  speaking  generally,  too  contented  with 
inferior  methods  and  too  ready  to  leave  things  to  chance. 
He  meant,  if  possible,  to  bring  new  life  into  the  island  by 
developing  its  natural  wealth;  he  had  seen  cures  worked 
by  the  Ischian  waters  which  had  taken  his  breath  away; 
they  were  equal  to  the  miraculous  cures  of  Lourdes  or 
Loretto. 

While  Christine  was  working  she  heard  his  speech  dis- 
cussed by  the  attendants.  She  glowed  inwardly  with  the 
secret  knowledge  and  pride  that  this  benefactor  and  illus- 
trious visitor  was  nearer  in  thought  and  feeling  to  herself 
than  to  anyone  else  in  the  island.  His  visit  to  her  the  day 
before  had  given  her  food  for  much  reflection.  Even 
while  she  hoped  to  see  him  again  she  dreaded  doing  so. 

While  she  was  planning  out  her  future  attitude  towards 
him,  a  cry  burst  out:  "Evviva  Salvatore!  Evviva  il 
Cavaliere  Mazzini,  nostro  Salvatore!" 

Christine  went  on  with  her  work.  She  was  massaging  a 
little  girl  who  was  almost  a  cripple;  she  had  lived  all  her 
life  in  a  malarious  swamp  south  of  Naples.  All  the  other 
attendants  and  most  of  the  patients  who  could  hurry  into 
their  clothes,  rushed  to  the  public  rooms  of  the  building  to 
see  the  Cavaliere.  A  guilty  sense  of  embarrassment  kept 
Christine  from  joining  them. 

She  determined  to  let  the  Cavaliere  get  safely  out  of  the 
building  before  she  changed  her  professional  clothes  for  her 
plain  black  gown.  She  had  suddenly  become  nervous  and 
afraid  of  their  possible  meeting.  If  she  did  not  see  him 
again  she  need  not  tell  him  the  truth  about  her  husband. 
She  was  ashamed  of  the  whole  thing.  Her  story  as  it  would 


174  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

have  to  be  told  was  so  very  ordinary  and  ugly ;  it  would  be 
better  to  let  him  leave  the  island  without  seeing  her  again. 
Why  tell  him  anything  more  about  her  miserable  marriage? 
She  even  went  so  far  as  to  plan  in  her  mind  a  sure  means  of 
evading  the  Cavaliere;  she  would  pay  a  visit  to  an  Ameri- 
can friend,  who  was  married  to  an  Italian  naval  Captain. 
They  lived  in  a  romantic  old  eastle  some  distance  from 
Casamicciola.  She  had  been  a  patient  of  Christine's  at  the 
baths. 

But  her  plans  for  evading  Salvatore  did  not  fall  in  with 
the  plans  of  the  Ruling  Hand.  On  her  return  to  her  cot- 
tage she  found  on  her  kitchen  table  a  basket  of  fruit  which 
must  have  come  by  the  early  boat  from  Naples. 

''Such  fruit!  All  out  of  season,  of  course!"  Christine 
said  as  she  looked  at  it. 

In  the  bottom  of  the  basket  she  discovered  a  box  of 
chocolates  which  must  have  cost,  according  to  her  ready 
reckoning,  about  as  much  as  her  wages  for  a  whole  week. 
She  buried  her  face  in  the  Neapolitan  violets  which  had 
been  laid  on  top  of  the  fruit  to  keep  it  cool. 

"How  awfully  dear  of  him!"  she  said.  "How  awfully 
dear  and  sweet  of  him !  I  wonder  if  he  knows  that  I  haven't 
tasted  a  chocolate  for  years?  Sweets  are  a  luxury  in 
Italy,  where  sugar  has  always  been  expensive." 

While  she  ate  a  chocolate  she  searched  the  basket  to  see 
if  there  was  any  note  in  it ;  but  there  was  nothing.  While 
she  was  feeling  half  relieved  at  the  fact  and  half  disap- 
pointed a  knock  came  at  the  door.  Her  cry  of  "Avanti" 
was  answered  by  a  radiant  Salvatore,  who  held  out  both 
his  hands  to  her. 

"Come  sta,  Signora?" 

Christine  laughingly  said  that  she  was  very  well.  His 
boyish  eagerness  amused  her.  Where  was  the  material- 
istic business  man,  whose  whole  soul  was  immersed  in 
water-resisting  paint  ? 

"Signorina  Primavera,"  he  said  laughingly,  "let  us  be 
young  again.  Senta,  I  have  something  to  suggest."  His 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  175 

air  of  possession  thrilled  her.  "Tell  me,"  he  said  gaily — 
he  was  speaking  in  Italian — "will  you  grant  me  a  favour, 
give  me  a  great  pleasure?" 

"I  must  know  what  it  is  first,  Cavaliere."  He  still 
clasped  her  hands ;  his  eyes  both  demanded  and  pleaded. 
"I  am  too  old  and  wise  to  make  rash  promises." 

"When  I  leave  Ischia,  will  you  come  to  Naples?  My 
sister  is  there — will  you  be  her  guest  for  one  day  and  then 
come  with  us  to  Sicily?" 

"No!  No!  Cavaliere!"  Christine's  cry  was  an  imme- 
diate and  frightened  refusal.  She  tried  to  turn  from  him 
and  withdraw  her  hands;  her  eyes  caught  sight  of  the 
violets  on  the  table.  "What  a  beautiful  gift  of  flowers  and 
fruit  you  sent  me  this  morning!  Thank  you  so  .  .  ." 

He  stopped  her.  "Signora,  Signora,  don't  evade  my 
request.  I  don't  care  a  fig  for  the  flowers  and  fruit."  He 
held  her  hands  still  more  firmly  and  turned  her  round  until 
she  faced  him  again.  "Tell  me,  am  I  asking  too  great  an 
honour?  Is  the  old  Salvatore  still  in  your  mind?  Is  he, 
Primavera,  still  the  mender  of  images?  To  the  islanders 
he  is  a  millionaire,  a  great  Signore.  To  you,  Signora, 
whose  opinion  he  so  much  more  values,  is  he  still  the  old 
Salvatore,  the  foolish  youth  who  was  sent  back  to  his  cot- 
tage like  a  dog,  that  evening  when  you  had  allowed  him  to 
walk  with  you?  You  see,  nothing  of  it  is  forgotten — 
everything  was  treasured." 

"No,  no,  Salvatore."  She  pressed  his  hands  in  an  eager 
assurance;  his  Christian  name  came  affectionately  from 
her  lips.  "I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing,  you  know  I 
didn't.  You  lived  like  a  peasant,  but  you  were  always 
quite  different,  different  .  .  ."  she  hesitated  ".  .  .  . 
different  from  all  the  other  youths  in  Girgenti.  You  were 
an  artist."  She  looked  up.  "And  a  genius,  Cavaliere.  I 
told  my  aunt  even  when  I  was  a  girl  and  knew  so  little, 
that  a  genius  is  a  child  of  the  Gods.  Genius  belongs  to  no 
class." 


176  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

"Ah,  Signora — my  genius,  what  is  it?  I  have  invented 
a  water-resisting  paint!" 

"You  will  do  more ;  that  is  only  a  means  to  an  end.  Look 
at  your  industry  at  Licata." 

"Will  you  come,  Signora  ?  My  sister  will  require  a  com- 
panion; things  have  changed — she  cannot  wait  at  home 
until  I  have  finished  work  and  take  her  out.  She  wishes  to 
go  to  Girgenti,  to  the  old  home." 

"Girgenti !"  Christine's  voice  shook.  She  felt  his  silent 
sympathy.  "I  have  not  been  there,  Cavaliere,  since 
."  she  drew  her  hands  from  his;  they  were  only 
lightly  held — "not  since  I  thought  there  was  heaven  on  this 
earth,  not  since  I  lost  my  beliefs  and  faith."  She  stood 
before  him  fighting  for  strength,  strength  to  tell  him 
what  he  ought  to  know.  Her  emotion  made  her  madden- 
ingly fragile  in  Salvatore's  eyes,  and  exquisitely  pas- 
sionate. 

He  longed  to  feel  her  slightness  lost  in  his  strength.  He 
wanted  her  so  dreadfully  that  he  was  afraid  of  himself; 
he  was  afraid  that  he  would  spoil  all  his  chances  of  future 
happiness  by  some  mad  act  of  heedless  passion.  How 
was  she  to  know  that  he  had  really  been  in  love  with  her 
for  all  those  years?  What  woman  would  believe  it? 

"If  you  can  look  upon  my  sister  and  myself  as  your 
friends,  Signora,  why  will  you  not  give  us  the  pleasure 
of  coming  with  us  to  Sicily?"  He  paused.  "You  need 
not  go  to  Girgenti  if  you  would  rather  not;  you  could 
remain  in  Syracuse." 

Christine  contrived  to  shake  off  her  serious  manner.  She 
resolved  to  be  flippant,  less  sympathetic. 

"The  old  Christine  is  dead,"  she  said.  "I  have  seen 
nothing  of  her  for  years,  Cavaliere — the  silly  sentimental 
girl  who  visited  you  in  Girgenti  is  a  thing  of  the  past.  If 
the  new  Christine  went  to  Sicily  she  would  go  to  Girgenti 
just  to  prove  to  herself  how  dead  the  old  Christine  is." 
She  smiled.  "Do  you  know  what  the  new  Christine  said 
the  moment  she  opened  your  box  of  chocolates?" 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  177 

"Tell  me."    His  eyes  were  alight. 

"Oh,  nothing  romantic  or  gracious.  She  just  said, 
'They  must  have  cost  him  as  much  as  my  whole  food  for  a 
week.'  " 

"Cara,  Signora!"  His  face  became  agonised.  He  in- 
stantly pictured  her  as  she  had  come  to  his  cottage,  dressed 
as  she  was  dressed  in  the  old  days,  and  carrying  in  her 
hands  a  soft  gold  purse,  studded  with  jewels.  "Signora, 
and  I  have  so  much!  In  the  old  days  it  was  I  who  only 
tasted  meat  on  festas.  I  understand,  I  know!" 

"If  you  hadn't  known  and  hadn't  understood,  I 
shouldn't  have  told  you ;  it  is  because  you  know  and  under- 
stand that  we  can  be  true  friends."  She  looked  at  him 
with  grave  eyes.  "I  always  thought  somehow  that  you 
would  come  into  my  life  again;  and  yet  I  only  saw  you 
.  .  .  how  often?"  She  asked  the  question  absently. 

"Three  times,  Signora,  but  I  had  seen  you  always ;  you 
only  materialized  that  afternoon — you  had  always  been  a 
part  of  my  life.  The  subliminal  I  expected  you  to  come 
some  time." 

She  tried  to  speak  lightly.     "Wasn't  it  funny  of  me?" 

"You  had  money,  you  wanted  a  Venus,  and  all  I  had  to 
offer  you  was  a  lot  of  damaged  gods." 

They  were  wandering  from  the  point.  Christine  was 
piping  the  tune,  but  Salvatore  was  not  going  to  dance  to 
it  any  longer;  he  was  determined  to  obtain  her  promise. 

Time  had  flown  and  she  had  not  made  her  confession. 
She  knew  now  that  she  would  not  make  it.  A  fierce  desire 
had  come  to  her  to  enjoy  herself,  to  accept  the  happiness 
which  had  been  thrown  in  her  way,  to  accept  it  as  a  gift 
from  the  gods.  She  would  go  with  the  Mazzinis  to  Sicily 
if  she  found  that  Zita  really  wanted  her.  Yet  even  to 
herself  she  still  pretended  that  she  had  not  made  up  her 
mind  that  she  would  go. 

"Will  you  be  kind,  Signora?  Will  you  let  me  have  one 
of  the  few  personal  pleasures  which  my  'new  money'  can 
give  me?  Believe  me,  Signora,"  he  added  gravely,  "being 


178  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

wealthy  by  no  means  fills  one's  youthful  ideas.  I  prefer  a 
simple  life;  I  hate  show.  And  the  things  we  desire  most 
are  the  things  which  money  cannot  buy.  For  instance, 
this  trip  to  Sicily  with  you  and  Zita — it  would  be  so  de- 
lightful that  it  would  make  up  for  all  the  years  .  .  ." 
he  hesitated  and  then  went  on,  hurriedly  finishing  his  sen- 
tence as  he  had  not  meant  to,  "of  uncongenial  work." 

Christine  knew  what  he  meant,  but  she  made  no  answer. 

He  waited  for  a  few  moments  and  then  said,  "Will 
you  come,  Signora?  Don't  put  me  off  with  some  trivial 
excuse." 

"I  must  consider.     How  can  I  decide  at  once?" 

"No,  no,  you  must  not  take  time  or  you  will  say  no. 
Will  you  come  for  a  little  time,  just  to  see  the  Laughing 
Land  in  the  gayest  months  of  the  year?  Ah!  Signora, 
we  will  go  to  the  Fields  of  Enna  and  gather  narcissi  where 
Prosperine  and  her  maidens  gathered  them ;  we  will  go  to 
Syracuse,  to  Cicero's  beloved  Syracuse,  where  the  people 
are  gentle  and  where  Pan  still  pipes  and  Cyane  haunts  the 
tall  papyrus  which  fringes  the  banks  of  the  Anapo;  we 
will  go  to  Palermo,  where  Norman  splendour  and  Arab 
fantasy  have  bestowed  romance  on  every  street  and  build- 
ing !  You  will  come,  cara  Signora  ?  We  will  all  be  young 
again  and  give  ourselves  to  Sicily!  We  will  cast  our 
troubles  into  Charybdis  and  .  .  ." 

"In  Sicily  I  used  to  sing  an  old  hymn,  which  went  like 
this:"  Christine  began  to  sing,  "There  is  a  land  of  pure 
delight,  where  saints  immortal  dwell.  I  changed  the  word 
'saints'  into  'gods'  to  suit  my  surroundings." 

"That  is  no  answer,  Signora.  My  sister  will  be  happy. 
She  has  not  forgotten  La  Primavera ;  she  knows  I  have  met 
you.  I  wrote  to  her  last  night;  we  have  no  secrets  from 
each  other.  I  think  you  will  like  her,  Signora." 

"If  Zita  will  write  me  her  true  wishes,  Cavaliere,  I  will." 
Christine  spoke  slowly  and  hesitatingl}7.  "If  the  letter  tells 
me  that  she  will  really  welcome  me,  I  will  come." 

He  laughed  happily.     "Then   you  are  coming!     Ah, 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  179 

Signora,  what  if  I  awake,"  he  threw  out  his  hand,  "awake 
and  find  that  after  all  this  is  only  a  dream,  only  another  of 
the  old  dreams?" 

"Then  you  must  go  to  sleep  and  dream  again,  Cavaliere." 

"Gia,  gia,  Signora,  I  must  go  to  sleep  again."  He 
sighed.  "If  we  only  had  more  faith,  arnica  mia,  what  suf- 
fering we  might  save  ourselves  !  If  I  could  have  trusted ! 
But  our  faith  is  so  feeble,  it  cannot  move  even  an  anthill. 
Meeting  you  again  makes  me  ashamed  of  my  lack  of  trust, 
my  .  .  ."  he  stopped. 

"As  for  me,  I  live  from  day  to  day ;  I  have  had  to.  And 
I  am  really  thankful  for  each  happy  hour.  I  never  used  to 
be  grateful ;  now  it  seems  to  me  that  life  is  quite  wonderful 
if  one  is  not  tmhappy.  Peace  and  kindly  fellowship  are  so 
good.  When  I  was  young  I  took  these  things  for  granted, 
now  I  know  how  precious  they  are." 

"Primavera !  Primavera !"  His  voice  was  broken.  He 
dared  not  look  into  her  calm,  eyes ;  their  tragedy  lashed  his 
manhood. 

"Peace  and  sunshine  and  nothing  to  be  afraid  of — these 
things  are  not  the  daily  lot  of  every  woman,  Cavaliere." 

"That  you  should  have  learnt  that !"  He  longed  to  offer 
her  a  new  world,  a  world  of  pleasure  and  wealth  and  devo- 
tion, but  he  added  nothing  to  his  simple  words. 

"Far  better  women  than  myself  have  learnt  it,  Cava- 
liere." She  smiled  into  his  anxious  eyes.  "But  don't  look 
so  grave,  for  as  you  say,  in  Sicily  we  will  let  the  years  roll 
back,  we  will  forget,  we  will  expect  what  youth  expects  and 
not  be  content  with  an  absence  of  apprehension  and  fear." 

"No,  no.  For  me,  Signora,  I  will  hold  on  to  the  present. 
Zita  will  have  to  tell  no  more  lies,  for  you  will  be  with  us." 
He  laughed  as  he  looked  at  his  watch.  "You  will  be  with 
us  all  day  long,  and  Zita  will  be  your  willing  slave."  He 
held  out  his  hand.  "Now  I  can  work  for  twenty-four 
hours  without  feeling  tired."  He  said  good-bye. 

"Must  you  be  going?  Christine  looked  troubled. 
Again,  she  was  letting  him  leave  her  without  telling  him 


180  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

the  truth;  she  was  permitting  this  intimacy  while  he  was 
in  ignorance  of  her  position.  There  was  no  doubt  that  he 
thought  she  was  a  widow. 

"I  must,  Signora.  Zita  will  write  to  you;  you  will  be 
ready." 

"How  can  I  come  like  this?"  she  asked.  "It  is  my  best 
frock."  She  looked  at  her  plain  black  dress.  It  was  made 
simply  and  in  no  modern  fashion,  not  unlike  the  plain 
Mass  black  of  the  humble  Sicilian  matrons. 

Salvatore  thought  that  she  looked  enchanting.  Certainly 
its  simplicity  showed  to  advantage  her  fair  throat  and 
wrists ;  they  looked  white  and  rounded  against  the  severe 
black  lines  of  the  sleeves  and  neck. 

"Veramente,  Signora."  His  eyes  worshipped  her. 
"Yes,  surely,  just  like  that.  You  were  not  too  grand  a 
lady  to  go  with  my  little  sister  when  she  could  not  even 
aspire  to  a  hat,  when  she  had  only  a  black  shawl  to  cover 
her  head.  I  like  you  in  black,  Signora,"  he  said  in  the 
same  breath.  "It  is  very  distinguished.  But  how  well  I 
remember  your  white  dress  and  your  white  hat  and  your 
silk  stockings !  Zita  loved  then  all,  Signora,  and  best  of 
all  the  little  wrist-watch  and  the  gold  purse.  I  loved  them 
too,  but  now  I  love  this  best,"  he  touched  her  black  cash- 
mere gown.  "I  love  my  Lady  of  Succour  best  of  all." 

"Hush,"  she  said,  "you  must  not  be  romantic.  We  are 
to  be  friends,  just  true  friends  if  I  am  to  come  to  Sicily. 
That  is  the  bargain." 

"I  swear,  Signora,  that  our  friendship  shall  not  be  sac- 
rificed." He  laughed.  "But  poor  human  nature — it  is  so 
weak,"  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  "or  so  masterful — it  has 
a  way  of  scattering  our  best  intention  to  the  wind." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "we  mean  to  be  so  strong."  She  spoke 
regretfully.  "I  meant  to  be  so  strong  this  very  after- 
noon." She  tried  to  detain  him ;  he  saw  her  anxiety. 

"Don't  be  too  strong,  Primavera — leave  that  to  me." 

He  gave  her  no  chance  of  revoking  or  of  confession,  for 
as  he  said  the  words  he  left  her. 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  1811 


CHAPTER  XX 

CHRISTINE  was  annoyed  with  herself.  She  had  missed  Sal- 
vatore  during  his  absence  from  Ischia  and  she  had  not 
wanted  to  miss  him.  He  had  stayed  in  Naples  without 
coming  to  the  island,  as  he  had  intended  to  do,  every  even- 
ing, and  the  days  had  dragged  horribly,  and,  as  she  had 
confessed  to  herself,  bored  her  almost  to  tears. 

During  his  absence  she  had  received  a  letter  from  Zita; 
it  arrived  the  morning  after  Salvatore  left  her,  with  the 
half -promise  that  if  Zita  was  really  anxious  to  have  her, 
she  would  seriously  consider  the  fact  of  going  to  Sicily 
as  their  guest. 

Christine  had  recognized  at  once  that  it  was  the  letter  of 
a  lady,  and  a  very  charming  one.  The  notepaper  was 
faultless,  though  in  keeping  with  the  vogue  of  the  day; 
there  was  no  scent  about  it  and  no  pale  mauve  or  pink  tints. 
There  was,  in  fact,  nothing  which  the  vulgarised  Italian 
adores.  This  was  a  distinct  relief  to  her. 

"Dear  Signora,"  it  ran, 

"My  brother  has  told  me  of  his  meeting  with  you  and 
that  you  have  almost  consented  to  come  with  us  to  Sicily. 
I  can  scarcely  believe  it  is  true.  It  seems  so  wonderful 
after  all  these  years !  I  have  not  forgotten  you — indeed, 
whenever  we  talk  about  the  old  Girgenti  days,  which  is  very 
often,  Salvatore  and  I  always  think  and  talk  of  you. 

"I  have  been  staying  in  Pompeii  with  some  friends,  but 
I  am  coming  with  Salvatore  to  Ischia  to  see  you  and  to  tell 
you  what  I  find  very  difficult  to  express  in  a  letter — the 
really  sincere  pleasure  it  will  give  me  if  you  will  come  to 
Sicily. 

"Until  we  meet  arrividerci,  cara  Signora, 

"Yours  sincerely, 

"ZiTA  MAZZINI." 

It  was  difficult  for  Christine  to  realise  that  this  note  had 
been  written  by  her  little  "daughter  of  the  gods."  It  was 


182  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

as  characteristic  of  the  change  which  had  taken  place  in 
the  circumstances  of  the  brother  and  sister  as  anything 
that  could  have  happened.  Christine  had  pondered  over 
it  and  examined  it  in  every  detail,  while  her  conscience  was 
reminding  her  that  the  very  fact  of  the  note  being  the  note 
of  a  refined  gentlewoman  made  it  all  the  more  necessary 
for  her  to  tell  Salvatore  of  her  true  position.  The  note 
showed  her  that  in  all  probability  there  would  be  nothing 
about  Zita  which  would  jar  her  or  prevent  her  accepting 
her  also  as  her  social  equal,  and  thus  carrying  things  still 
further  on  the  tide  of  romance. 

The  letter  suggested  that  wealth  had  not  spoilt  Zita. 
She  wondered  if  it  had  made  her  more  ordinary,  less  inter- 
esting, and  if  she  had  kept  her  looks?  Of  course  it  was 
no  use  judging  by  Salvatore's  opinion  of  her,  for  he  obvi- 
ously still  thought  her  perfect.  Christine  quite  well  re- 
membered how  her  husband  had  assured  her  that  Zita  would 
probably  look  old  and  haggard  as  soon  as  she  had  passed 
out  of  girlhood.  Well,  she  was  a  girl  no  longer  from  the 
Sicilian  point  of  view,  but  then  she  had  been  spared  all 
privation  and  the  exhaustion  of  a  southern  climate.  She 
could  not  picture  her  little  Greek  figurine  dressed  up  in 
flimsy  up-to-date  clothes.  Would  she  suit  them  as  per- 
fectly as  she  had  suited  her  black  shawl  or  bright  handker- 
chief worn  with  her  native  dress? 

The  day  when  she  had  last  seen  Zita  came  vividly  to  her 
mind — the  hour  they  had  spent  together  in  the  cake-shop, 
and  Andrea's  desire  to  dismiss  the  girl  and  spend  the  time 
with  herself.  Then  equally  clearly  she  visualised  the  crest- 
fallen Salvatore  who  had  been  sent  back  to  his  cottage  by 
her  domineering  lover.  She  remembered  her  own  feeling  of 
shame  at  his  dismissal,  and  how  quickly  it  had  been  swept 
away  by  Andrea's  new  air  of  proprietorship.  She  smiled 
bitterly  at  her  own  foolishness,  her  total  lack  of  discern- 
ment. The  ex-riding  master  in  a  military  gymnasium,  the 
son  of  a  Croatian  tailor,  was  too  fine  a  gentleman  to  asso- 
ciate with  Salvatore  Mazzini! 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  183 

"Ah,  but  he  was  clever,"  she  spoke  dreamily,  "clever 
and  amazingly  subtle."  How  craftily  he  had  poisoned  her 
mind  and  vilified  the  man  he  was  using  for  his  own  ends ! 

But  surely  that  had  all  happened  in  her  last  incarnation, 
all  that  belonged  to  the  girl  Christine  who,  she  had  assured 
Salvatore,  was  dead.  She  looked  at  herself  in  the  mirror 
which  hung  on  the  wall.  She  still  looked  young,  whatever 
she  felt,  and  as  she  had  said  many  times  before  she  said 
again :  "Because  in  the  old  days  I  rashly  exchanged  a  dull 
life  of  ease  and  luxury  for  less  than  six  months  of  mad 
happiness — if  I  could  call  it  happiness — I  am  not  going 
to  consider  my  life  finished  or  the  world  my  enemy !" 

Her  commonsense  had  so  often  reminded  that  she  herself 
had  been  to  blame.  She  had  married  a  man  about  whom 
she  knew  practically  nothing,  and  he  had  turned  out  ten 
times  worse  than  all  that  her  aunt  had  predicted.  Well, 
her  Scots  pluck  had  saved  her.  Since  she  had  cut  herself 
adrift  from  Andrea  and  had  said  good-bye  to  her  old  ideas 
of  happiness,  she  had  been  happy,  happy  because  her 
health  was  good  and  the  people  in  her  simple  world  were 
kind  and  lovable. 

Since  she  had  parted  with  Salvatore  she  had  passed 
many  useless  hours  in  arguing  with  her  conscience.  She 
wanted  to  go  to  Sicily,  and  she  was  going,  but  that  did 
not  prevent  her  pretending  to  herself  that  the  fact  was 
not  settled. 

Quite  apart  from  her  conscientious  scruples  she  won- 
dered if  the  situation  would  be  too  difficult.  Would  she 
ever  get  accustomed  to  it  and  forget  the  old  days?  It 
certainly  would  be  amusing  to  see  Zita  in  her  new  role. 
Then  there  was  the  fear  that  she  herself  might  constantly 
"put  her  foot  in  it"  by  reminding  the  girl  of  what  she 
probably  wished  to  forget.  Would  Zita  be  well  bred 
enough  to  stand  the  test?  In  fact,  was  she  as  perfect  a 
lady  as  Salvatore  was  a  gentleman?  That  remained  to 
be  seen.  The  experience  would  certainly  be  a  novel  one. 

The  curious  thing  was  that  when  she  was  with  Salvatore 


184  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

she  never  for  one  moment  remembered  the  fact  that  he  had 
once  been  beneath  her  socially;  when  it  occurred  to  her  it 
was  in  a  humorous  and  almost  unbelievable  fashion. 

On  the  evening  which  was  fixed  for  Salvatore's  return 
to  the  island  with  Zita,  Christine  put  on  her  hat  and  wan- 
dered down  to  the  port.  In  Ischia  almost  all  the  seaport- 
towns  are  dirty;  Casamicciola  is  the  exception.  Even  in 
the  tiny  island  there  is  room  for  southern  extremes,  both  in 
the  people  and  in  the  vegetation.  Some  patches  of  the 
island  are  filthy  and  foul-smelling,  with  no  redeeming 
charm;  other  parts  are  superlatively  beautiful.  To  a 
stranger  its  beauty  is  tragic  because  of  the  tale  it  tells 
of  its  successive  destructions ;  they  can  be  read  in  the 
landscape  and  in  the  character  of  the  people. 

On  the  blue  sea  the  boat  came  nearer  and  nearer  to  Casa- 
micciola harbour.  Christine's  breath  came  more  and  more 
quickly;  her  pretended  calm  vanished.  During  her  two 
days  of  boredom  she  had  passed  many  milestones  on  her 
sentimental  journey,  a  journey  which  could  have  but  one 
end. 

She  would  have  scouted  the  idea  that  she  was  in  love 
with  Salvatore  Mazzini,  because  she  did  not  know,  for  so 
far  nothing  had  shown  her  what  her  life  in  the  south  had 
done  for  her. 

When  we  speak  of  the  effect  of  climate  we  refer  more 
generally  to  physical  well-being.  But  the  effect  of  climate 
is  much  further-reaching;  temperamentally  its  effects  are 
limitless.  Christine  had  lived  in  a  land  where  Nature 
exhausts  herself  with  the  exuberance  of  living,  a  world 
where  the  vegetation  is  but  the  outward  and  visible  sign  of 
the  intensity  of  human  nature.  In  Ischia  the  homely 
valerian  becomes  a  shrub ;  its  heavy  flowers  are  as  pink  and 
full  of  colour  as  a  Dorothy  Perkins  rambler.  The  white 
cistus  which  covers  the  rocks  has  not  even  the  life  of  a 
butterfly ;  its  closed  buds  of  the  morning  become  scattered 
petals  by  noon. 

Live  and  live  ardently  is  the  message  which  drives  at  the 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  185 

senses.  Life  and  love  and  laughter  are  here  for  you  to- 
day ;  to-morrow  may  bring  tears,  terror,  tempests. 

On  this  day  of  Salvatore's  return  to  the  island  the 
weather  was  perfect;  the  gardens,  where  water  was  freely 
bestowed,  were  full  of  flowers;  the  sea  was  as  blue  as  a 
sea  could  be.  There  was  an  air  of  abandonment  and  passion 
in  the  atmosphere  which  told  the  inhabitants  that  spring 
had  given  place  to  summer,  that  spring,  with  its  light 
touch,  had  once  more  become  a  tender  memory. 

As  soon  as  the  boat  touched  the  pier  Salvatore  sprang 
ashore.  Christine  strained  her  eyes  to  see  beyond  the 
crowd,  for  with  him  was  the  daintiest,  prettiest  little  figure 
she  had  ever  seen.  Even  from  a  distance  she  could  see  that 
as  a  modern  girl  Zita  was  a  huge  success.  Although  she 
was  dressed  in  the  very  latest  mode,  a  fact  which  anyone 
can  tell  at  a  glance  by  the  outline  of  a  woman's  figure, 
she  was  by  no  means  a  fashion-plate;  she  was  distinctive 
and  individual.  A  long  grey  sun-veil,  which  fell  from  her 
hat  to  the  hem  of  her  skirt,  almost  hid  her  face  from 
Christine,  who  had  managed  to  elbow  her  way  through  the 
crowd  to  her  side. 

The  veil  was  probably  a  wise  precaution  against  extreme 
nervousness  on  Zita's  part.  It  would  hide  her  confusion 
if  the  meeting  was  embarrassing. 

But  the  precaution  was  quite  u  -necessary.  From  the 
moment  that  her  exquisitely  gloved  hand  rested  in  Chris- 
tine's ungloved  one  her  nervousness  fled.  She  forgot  her 
shyness,  for  Christine  was  kissing  her.  After  gazing  at 
her  for  a  moment,  Christine  turned  to  Salvatore. 

"Amico  mio,  she  is  delicious !" 

Zita  laughed,  and  her  laugh  was  like  a  pigeon  making 
love ;  her  heart  was  full  of  happiness. 

"Signora,  isn't  it  wonderful? — after  all  these  years,  that 
we  should  meet  again!  La  Primavera  is  now  to  be  my 
friend." 

"Yes,  I'm  going  to  be  your  friend  and  your  guest — it  is 
so  kind  of  you."  Christine's  long  arm  was  round  the  girl's 


186  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

shoulder.  "We  are  all  going  to  be  very  young  again  and 
very  foolish,  and  so  happy." 

"Sicily  will  do  you  good,  Signora.  Salvatore  says  that 
you  are  very  clever  and  very  hardworked — you  need  a 
rest." 

"I  am  all  happiness  to-day,  Zita.  But  it  must  not  be 
'Signora' — it  must  be  Zita  and  Christine." 

Zita  turned  to  her  brother.  "The  Signora  says  I  may 
call  her  by  her  Christian  name.  Don't  you  think  she  has 
become  very  like  a  fair  Florentine,  who  they  say  can  be 
thin  without  being  thin,  just  as  a  Roman  can  be  fat  with- 
out being  fat?  You  are  Scots  no  longer,  Signora.  I  will 
not  call  you  Christine." 

"Why  not  Primavera?"  Christine  smiled.  She  won- 
dered if  what  the  girl  said  was  true. 

Salvatore  looked  delighted.  Zita  gave  a  little  cry  of 
pleasure ;  it  was  a  rebirth  of  the  old  Zita. 

"Si,  si !  Let  it  be  La  Primavera !  It  shall  be  Zita  and 
Primavera."  She  spoke  in  Italian;  to  Christine  it  had 
become  instinctive. 

Salvatore  had  left  them  to  attend  to  their  luggage. 
Zita's  luggage  also  was  so  characteristic  of  the  change  in 
the  girl  that  it  brought  a  kindly  smile  to  Christine's  eyes. 
The  dressing-case  was  exquisitely  correct,  and  the  long 
dress  box  foretold  no  creases  to  dainty  skirts,  while  the 
copious  hat-box  suggested  other  things  than  black  shawls. 

The  girl  at  her  side  was  so  perfectly  suited  to  her  modern 
luggage  and  so  certain  of  herself  in  her  new  circumstances 
that  it  was  very  difficult  to  believe  that  the  two  Zitas  were 
one  and  the  same  person. 

"It  is  just  as  difficult,"  Christine  said  to  herself,  "to 
visualise  her  now  as  she  was  when  I  first  knew  her,  as  it  is 
to  recollect  how  a  house  used  to  look  when  it  is  trans- 
formed into  a  totally  different  class  of  building." 

When  Salvatore  returned  he  relieved  the  situation,  which 
had  become  a  little  more  difficult  after  the  first  greeting 
was  over,  by  explaining  to  Christine  why  the  trip  to  Sicily 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  187 

had  to  be  postponed  for  a  few  days.  The  business  which  he 
had  had  to  attend  to  in  Naples  had  taken  longer  than  he 
expected.  He  had,  in  fact,  forgotten  the  slow  methods  of 
Italian  business  men;  he  had  grown  accustomed  to  the 
rapid  habits  of  Americans  and  had  miscalculated  the  time 
it  would  require  to  finish  the  work,  which  he  could  not  leave 
incomplete.  The  number  of  idle,  black-coated  limpets  who 
clung  to  every  State  Department  opened  his  eyes  to  much 
of  which  he  had  been  ignorant  in  the  old  days ;  the  very 
existence  of  all  these  poorly-paid  Government  clerks  and 
officials,  all  of  them  drawing  the  blood  out  of  his  country's 
veins,  had  been  unknown  to  him. 

Salvatore  supplied  the  Italian  Government  with 
"Omega,"  his  water-resisting  paint,  at  a  price  far  below 
that  at  which  he  had  sold  it  to  any  other  Government. 
From  the  Italian  Admiralty  he  was  content  to  receive  a 
very  meagre  profit ;  but  alas !  he  had  found  it  necessary  to 
trace  a  very  considerable  leakage  to  its  source.  Govern- 
ment paint  supplied  by  his  firm  was  finding  its  way  into 
private  concerns ;  the  old  story  of  bribery  and  corruption 
was  at  work. 

This  unpleasant  discovery  had  been  the  reason  of  the 
postponement  of  the  trip  to  Sicily. 

It  did  not  surprise  Christine,  who  would,  indeed,  have 
been  much  more  surprised  if  Salvatore  had  done  what  he 
hoped  to  do  in  the  time  he  had  arranged. 

It  was  almost  impossible  to  talk  about  anything  which 
really  mattered  during  their  walk  from  the  port  to  the 
hotel,  for  Salvatore  had  to  speak  to  at  least  half  the 
passengers  who  had  travelled  in  the  boat  with  him,  and  the 
noise  of  the  horse's  hoofs  on  the  stone-paved  road  made 
hearing  an  effort. 

When  they  reached  their  destination  Christine  promised 
that  she  would  return  later  on  and  dine  with  them  in  the 
garden  of  the  old-fashioned  hotel,  from  whose  dark  arbours 
in  the  daytime  you  can  look  out  upon  dazzling  sunshine  and 
a  blue  sea ;  and  at  night  upon  a  dream-world,  where  fireflies 


188  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

flash  against  the  darkness  of  the  sky,  which  is  no  darker 
than  the  blue  of  wet  passion  flowers. 

At  seven  o'clock  Salvatore  appeared  at  Christine's  door. 
The  pleasure  of  being  alone  with  her  sent  him  to  her  before 
she  was  ready  to  leave  her  cottage.  She  laughingly  told 
him  that  he  had  come  too  soon. 

"I  want  to  do  my  hair,  Cavaliere,"  she  said,  "and  I  do 
it  here — there  isn't  sufficient  light  in  my  bedroom — so  you 
must  go." 

"I  suppose  it  is  a  sacred  rite  which  I  may  not  witness?" 

They  both  laughed.     She  shook  her  head. 

"Yes,  very  sacred.  The  transformation  would  shock 
you — it  all  comes  off." 

"Squisito,"  he  said  softly,  "squisito." 

Christine  affectionately  turned  him  out  into  the  street 
with  the  promise  that  she  would  be  ready  in  a  quarter  of 
an  hour.  For  a  moment  she  stood  lost  in  thought.  She 
knew  that  it  was  not  necessary  to  "dress"  for  dinner  in  an 
hotel  in  Ischia,  but  she  also  knew  that  Zita  would  wear 
just  the  right  sort  of  gown — the  girl's  taste  in  'dress  was 
unmistakably  correct.  Until  she  had  seen  Zita's  clothes 
she  had  not  thought  about  her  own. 

"Clever,  clever  little  Zita!"  she  said  to  herself.  "You 
are  absolutely  'it.'  You  were  the  Venus  for  which  I  once 
asked  Salvatore  in  vain ;  my  dear  little  Greek  figurine  was 
adorable  and  scarcely  real ;  the  new  Zita  is  a  modern  woman, 
perfectly  turned  out,  and  extraordinarily  feminine." 

Again  before  she  was  ready  for  him  Salvatore's  knock 
came  at  the  door. 

She  opened  it.  Her  smile  at  his  impatience  made  him 
hunger  for  an  embrace. 

"Shall  I  do?"  she  said  cheerfully.  "I  told  you  that 
this  was  my  best  dress,  and  this  cloak  is  a  relic  of  my  Tunis 
days,"  she  held  out  the  corner  of  a  burnous  which  she  had 
thrown  over  it.  "It  has  been  a  faithful  friend — it  won't 
wear  out  and  no  sun  fades  it." 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  189 

Salvatore  was  looking  at  her  admiringly.  The  glorious 
colour  of  the  cloak  and  its  graceful  folds  suited  her  to 
perfection.  Christine  knew  it. 

"It  is  perfect,  Signora.  That  is  what  the  Arabs  call 
'sunset  colour,'  and  these  are  the  very  few  folds  you  get  in  a 
Tanagra  figurine."  He  let  his  hands  slip  down  the  fine 
cloth  of  the  burnous.  "The  East  is  so  sure,"  he  said.  "It 
never  errs,  when  it  is  the  East;  it  is  only  the  new  East 
which  can  be  so  horribly  wrong." 

"I  used  to  say  that  about  Sicily,"  she  said.  "Where 
Sicily  was  content  to  be  Sicily,  she  was  perfect ;  where  she 
had  become  western,  she  was  .  .  ."  Christine  threw 
up  her  head. 

"Senta,  Signora,  tell  me — has  the  West  spoilt  my 
sister?  Zita  is  no  longer  Sicilian — has  she  stood  the 
grafting?  I  want  your  true  opinion." 

"Zita !"  Christine  cried.  "Oh,  Salvatore,  Zita  is  ador- 
able! I  never  saw  such  a  tempting  little  creature  in  my 
life!"  Their  eyes  met.  "Life  is  awfully  interesting,  Sal- 
vatore! I  should  have  said  'Cavaliere' — you  have  per- 
sistently said  'Signora.' " 

"No,  no !  Let  it  be  Salvatore — to  you  I  must  always  be 
Salvatore,  just  the  old  Salvatore  who  would  willingly  have 
dug  night  and  day  if  he  could  have  found  a  Venus  for  his 
wonderful  visitor." 

"I  think  of  you  as  Salvatore  of  course,"  she  spoke 
softly,  "but  hadn't  I  better  call  you  Cavaliere?" 

"No,  no,"  he  said.  "If  you  think  of  me  as  Salvatore, 
let  it  be  Salvatore." 

They  paused  to  look  at  the  scene  behind  them. 

"Does  Ischia  stand  the  test  of  revisiting?"  she  asked. 
"The  castles  of  our  youth  shrink  into  hovels  when  we  see 
them  with  grown-up  eyes." 

Salvatore  looked  tenderly  at  the  view  spread  before  him. 
"Ischia  is  beautiful,"  he  said.  "And  does  it  please  you 
as  it  pleases  me  to  remember  that  Vittoria  Colonna  found 
it  so  beautiful  that  in  the  autumn  of  her  life  she  lived  in 


190  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

that  castle  out  there,  and  wrote  from  it  her  wonderful 
letters  to  Michelangelo?" 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Christine  said.  "And  another  pic- 
turesque person  lived  there — the  great  Hohenstaufen." 

Salvatore  smiled.  "Yes,  but  Frederick  of  Hohenstaufen 
built  it  on  the  site  of  an  older  fortress  and  city,  which  is 
interesting  to  us  because  the  original  castle  was  built  by 
the  Syracusans  when  they  wished  to  establish  a  small 
colony  on  the  rock  to  do  honour  to  their  king  Hiero." 

"I  think  the  Castle  of  Ischia  touches  the  very  zenith  of 
romantic  beauty,"  Christine  said.  "I  remember  how  it 
fascinated  me  years  ago  when  I  first  saw  it  rising  out  of 
the  water  like  an  enchanted  fortress  in  a  mediaeval 
legend." 

When  she  had  finished  speaking  their  glowing  eyes  met. 

"I  remember,  Signora — in  Girgenti,  in  Casa  Salvatore, 
you  told  me  that  you  longed  to  visit  the  island." 

"I  believe  I  did.  But  fancy  you  remembering  that!" 
Christine's  eyes  dropped.  "What  a  prodigious  memory 
you  have  got!" 

"You  are  not  really  surprised ;  my  memory  is  not  at  all 
wonderful !" 

"To  me  it  is,"  Christine  said  with  mock  lightness.  "You 
make  me  ashamed  of  mine." 

As  she  spoke  they  entered  the  hotel.  With  Zita  there 
would  be  less  chance  of  conversation  drifting  into  danger- 
ous channels.  During  their  short  walk  Salvatore's  eyes 
had  made  her  say  to  herself  over  and  over  again,  "In 
Sicily  we  must  be  three,  not  two.  I  must  keep  Zita  beside 
me." 

Their  dinner  which  had  been  specially  prepared  for 
them,  was  eaten  in  a  round  arbour,  which  looked  over  luxu- 
rious gardens  and  the  sea.  Christine  did  not  hesitate  to  tell 
Zita  how  much  she  was  enjoying  the  excellent  chicken  and 
good  caramel  pudding — a  very  simple  meal,  but  with  the 
addition  of  a  well-dressed  salad  and  some  beautiful  fruit 
and  sweets,  which  Salvatore  had  bought  in  Naples,  it  was 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  191 

to  Christine  a  banquet.  She  enjoyed  it  just  as  much  as 
Zita  would  have  done  ten  years  ago. 

"My  usual  evening  meal,"  she  said,  "consists  of  an  egg 
when  they  are  very  cheap,  and  some  figs  ;  in  the  cooler 
weather  I  have  a  cup  of  chocolate  and  some  brown  bread 
and  butter.  I  am  so  fond  of  the  rough  native  bread  with 
little  pine  seeds  on  the  top  of  it.  Do  you  remember  it, 
Zita?" 

"Of  course  I  do,  Signora."  She  laughed  as  gaily  as  a 
child  at  Christine's  question.  "Why,  in  the  old  days  even 
that  bread  was  only  for  festa  days,  wasn't  it,  Salvatore? 
With  perhaps  a  poor  little  goldfinch  to  flavour  a  big  dish 
of  macaroni.  We  called  that  meat,  ftignora." 

"Who  said  Signora?"  Christine  cried. 

Zita's  eyes  shown  with  happiness.  "But  that  is  true, 
Primavera.  And  after  that  in  Rome  —  do  you  remember, 
Salvatore,  even  the  one  goldfinch  was  too  costly?  Ah, 
Sign  .  .  ."  she  stopped  herself,  "No,  no,  I  mean  Prima- 


"Were  you  poorer  after  I  left?" 

"Much  poorer,  Sign  .  .  ."  Zita  laughed  again, 
"Primavera.  May  I  tell  her,  Salvatore?" 

They  were  drinking  their  after-dinner  coffee.  The 
brother  and  sister  looked  at  each  other. 

"Certainly,  if  she  cares  to  hear  the  story  of  our  woes." 
Christine  smiled  encouragingly  to  Zita. 

"Well,  when  we  left  Girgenti  we  had  a  little  money;  it 
was  to  be  spent  on  Salvatore's  work.  It  seemed  to  both  of 
us  at  the  time  a  great  deal  —  oh,  so  much!  Do  you  re- 
member, fratello  mio?" 

The  colour  mounted  to  Christine's  cheeks.  She  looked 
at  Salvatore  nervously.  Was  she,  after  all,  to  hear  the 
story  her  husband  had  told  her?  Where  had  that  money 
suddenly  come  from? 

"We  thought  the  money  would  keep  us  in  Rome  for  as 
long  as  it  would  have  kept  us  in  Girgenti.  We  soon 
found  out  our  mistake.  Signora,  in  a  large  city  you  have 


192  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

to  breathe  gold.  Poor  Salvatore  worked  and  worked  and 
he  grew  thinner  and  thinner;  I  could  have  earned  money 
as  a  model,  but  he  would  not  let  me.  It  was  terrible,  for 
I  could  do  nothing,  nothing  but  see  him  get  paler  and  paler 
and  thinner  and  thinner." 

Christine  had  laid  a  sympathetic  hand  on  Zita's  arm; 
her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  girl's  beautiful  face. 

"Don't  tell  all  that,  Zita — it  is  past  and  over.  It  is  not 
mirth-making."  Salvatore  had  hastily  interrupted  her. 

"But  it  is  so  interesting.  Tell  me  how  it  all  ended — 
what  saved  you?  Don't  stop  her,  Salvatore;  please  let  me 
hear." 

"Salvatore  gained  a  big  prize  at  the  Acoademia  and  on 
the  very  same  day  almost  that  it  was  awarded  to  him  he 
was  introduced  to  a  business  man  from  America."  Zita 
paused  and  then  went  on  breathlessly:  "His  partner  had 
seen  and  spoken  to  Salvatore  when  we  were  in  Girgenti." 
She  paused  again. 

To  break  the  tense  silence  which  followed  Christine  said, 
"And  then?" 

"From  that  day  fortune  favoured  us.  At  first  it  came 
gradually,  didn't  it,  Salvatore?  Then  later  on,  all  of  a 
sudden,  Salvatore's  discovery  of  water-resisting  paint 
changed  our  comfort  into  luxury,  and  for  the  last  five 
years,  Primavera,  we  have  had  more  money  per  hour 
than  we  had  per  year  in  Casa  Salvatore." 

"I  am  so  glad,"  Christine  said,  "so  awfully  glad !"  Her 
voice  betrayed  the  very  genuine  emotion  which  she  felt. 
Because  she  felt  deeply  she  was  tongue-tied.  There  was 
something  pathetically  romantic  about  the  life-story  of 
the  brother  and  sister.  If  she  had  been  alone  with  Zita 
she  would  have  asked  her  what  had  happened  to  the  youth 
who  had  spoken  to  her  in  the  cake-shop.  But  with  Salva- 
tore listening  to  their  conversation  it  was  difficult.  The 
fact  that  Zita  had  not  married  looked  as  if  the  broken 
romance  to  which  Salvatore  had  alluded  had  hurt  the  girl 
more  than  her  gay  manner  suggested. 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  193 

As  Christine  visualised  the  meeting  between  Zita  and  the 
young  man  in  the  shop  she  could  not  help  smiling.  How 
ill-suited  he  would  now  appear  to  the  Zita  who  sat  beside 
her! 

In  a  way  it  seemed  to  have  happened  only  yesterday; 
it  was  all  so  vivid.  And  yet  when  she  thought  over  the 
great  changes  which  had  taken  place  during  the  years 
which  had  parted  them,  it  seemed  like  a  century.  All  that 
she  herself  had  suffered  and  all  that  she  had  thrown  off  as 
of  no  account  passed  quickly  before  her  eyes.  The  amaz- 
ing thing  was  that  she  was  still  young  and  that  her  looks 
had  improved  with  keeping.  Life  is  a  strange  problem. 
How  could  it  be  explained?  For  she  had  endured  youth- 
killing  things — shame,  remorse  and  disillusionment.  And 
yet  here  she  was,  wanted  by  these  two  dear  wealthy  people, 
who  were  going  to  spoil  her  and  pet  her  and  adore  her. 
And  she  was  going  to  let  them  spoil  her,  she  was  going  to 
give  herself  up  to  their  whim  and  thoroughly  enj  oy  herself. 

The  good  dinner  which  she  had  eaten  made  her  think 
longingly  of  the  fleshpots  of  Egypt.  Having  enough  to 
eat  of  cheap  food  is  a  very  different  thing  from  dining  well, 
and  Christine  had  lived  on  the  edge  of  things  for  so  long 
that  sufficiency  had  become  to  her  almost  as  extraordinary 
as  luxury. 

She  saw  a  picture  of  herself  massaging  her  patients 
until  the  beads  of  perspiration  trickled  from  her  forehead. 
The  heat  from  the  sulphur  baths  was  quickly  reducing  her 
already  slender  figure  to  the  merest  shadow.  But  she  was 
going  to  say  good-bye  to  rheumatic  limbs  and  the  steaming 
heat  of  the  baths ;  she  was  going  to  change  all  that  for  the 
Hotel  Igeia,  at  Palermo,  that  superb  invasion  of  Monte 
Carlo  into  Sicily,  and  the  Hotel  San  Domencio  in  Taormina. 

As  the  Mazzinis  were  extremely  rich,  and  they  had  none 
of  the  expenses  which  are  attached  to  property  and  in- 
herited wealth,  allowing  for  the  fact  that  Salvatore  gave 
large  sums  to  charities,  Christine  knew  that  they  had  an 
abundance  to  spend  on  personal  pleasures  and  luxuries. 


194-  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

These  thoughts  had  been  in  the  back  of  her  mind  while  she 
talked  to  Zita  and  Salvatore  about  other  things.  Her 
visit  to  Sicily  as  their  guest  would  mean  nothing  in  the 
matter-  of  expenditure. 

As  the  evening  advanced  she  wanted  more  and  more  to 
hear  from  Salvatore' s  own  lips  the  denial  of  the  slander 
which  had  been  deliberately  planned  to  put  an  end  to  their 
old  intimacy.  Yet  something  held  her  back.  She  did  not 
wish  to  introduce  her  husband's  name.  If  she  spoke  about 
him  again  she  would  certainly  have  to  tell  them  that  he 
was  alive,  and  on  this  first  night  with  Zita,  why  bring  a 
cloud  on  the  horizon? 

Salvatore  had  become  grave  and  silent;  Zita  had  done 
all  the  talking. 

"Do  you  sing,  Primavera?"  she  asked.  "It  is  just  the 
evening  for  a  song." 

"I  once  thought  I  could  sing,"  Christine  laughed,  "but 
that  was  before  I  knew  Italy.  The  most  ignorant  peasant 
here  knows  how  to  produce  her  voice  better  than  I  do,  after 
all  my  expensive  lessons.  But  you  sing,  Zita — of  course 
you  do." 

"Yes,  I  sing,"  Zita  said.  "Salvatore  likes  my  voice,  but 
not  to-night,  Signora — I  mean,  Primavera.  To-night  I 
could  listen  to  other  people  singing,  but  I  could  not  sing." 
She  laid  her  hand  on  her  heart.  "Do  you  understand?" 

"Yes,  I  understand,"  Christine  said.  "I  feel  like  that 
too." 

Zita  tried  to  smile.  "Salvatore  says  my  voice  is  always 
full  of  tears  even  when  I  sing  songs  of  happiness ;  tears  of 
happiness  would  overflow  to-night."  She  slipped  her  arm 
round  Christine's  waist.  "Let  us  take  a  little  stroll  to- 
gether— Salvatore  is  so  far  away;  he  will  not  come  back. 
Look!  He  takes  no  return  ticket  on  these  journeys.  I 
never  know  when  to  expect  him  home." 

Salvatore  lifted  unseeing  eyes.  Zita's  story  had  sent  his 
mind  adrift;  he  was  the  old  Salvatore,  miserable  and 
ashamed ;  the  theft  of  the  urns  seemed  but  yesterday.  Yes, 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  195 

the  new  Christine  must  be  told  of  his  former  dishonesty; 
she  must  hear  the  story  from  his  own  lips.  But  how  was 
he  to  tell  her?  Why  need  he  do  it  yet? 

It  was  the  same  cry  with  Christine.  It  went  on  un- 
ceasingly :  She  must  tell  Salvatore,  he  must  know,  but  how 
was  she  to  do  it  ?  Why  need  she  do  it  yet  ? 

When  the  girls  were  walking  arm  in  arm  under  the 
pergola,  Zita  said  impulsively,  "Will  you  be  kind,  arnica 
mia?  I  want  you  to  tell  me  something." 

Christine's  breath  came  quickly.  What  did  the  girl  want 
to  know  ? 

"Am  I  in  your  opinion  a  lady?  Is  Salvatore's  opinion 
of  me  correct?  He  thinks  I  have  adapted  myself  very 
well  .  .  ."  Zita  hesitated. 

Christine  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  as  she  said,  "You  dear 
little  Zita,  I  have  forgotten  that  you  were  ever  anything 
but  a  refined  and  charming  woman  of  the  world!  You 
were  always  a  lady,  you  know  you  were!  And — isn't  it 
funny? — I  can't  think  of  you  as  you  used  to  be."  She 
turned  the  girl's  pleased  face  to  hers.  "You  are  absolutely 
'it,*  Zita — do  you  know  what  that  means  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  much  slang.  Some  Americans  speak 
more  slang  than  English;  but  Salvatore  objects  to  it.  So 
did  the  nuns." 

"Well,  you  are  absolutely  'it.'    How  else  can  I  put  it?" 

They  were  talking  in  whispers.  Salvatore  was  still 
planning  and  dreaming.  Zita  pointed  to  him;  her  eyes 
were  tender,  her  lips  smiling. 

"Look,  he  is  so  far  away,  so  very  far." 

Christine  looked,  and  as  she  looked  a  twinge  of  annoy- 
ance made  her  withdraw  her  eyes.  He  was  certainly  very 
far  away;  he  had  apparently  forgotten  her  presence;  he 
seemed  content  to  let  her  talk  to  Zita.  Perhaps,  like  all 
men,  if  he  could  not  monopolise  her,  he  did  not  want  her. 
She  turned  to  Zita. 

"Let's  slip  away — he  won't  notice,  and  I  want  to  say  so 
many  things." 


196  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

They  left  the  pergola  and  walked  to  the  far  end  of  the 
rambling  garden.  When  they  had  seated  themselves  on  a 
marble  seat  which  had  once  graced  a  classic  villa,  Zita 
said : 

"Really,  Primavera,  I  am  so  glad  that  you  think  I  am 
'it,' "  she  laughed,  "that  I  do  not  look  like  the  rich 
daughters  of  some  of  our  peasants  who  go  out  to  South 
America  and  come  back  millionaires.  To  me  they  look 
horrible  in  their  best  clothes;  but  one  cannot  see  oneself, 
cara  arnica — how  can  one  tell?  These  poor  things  think 
they  are  very  refined  and  grand.  But  you  have  told  me 
the  truth,  Signora ?  You  have  not  only  been  polite?  Long 
ago  we  both  said  that  we  preferred  truth  to  flattery." 

"Zita,  you  must  know  that  you  are  absolutely  correct." 
Christine  looked  at  the  girl  admiringly.  In  the  soft  light 
of  the  stars,  under  the  violet  of  the  southern  sky,  she  was 
as  Christine  had  said  to  Salvatore,  "delicious" ;  her  pallor 
was  intense  and  passionate.  "Salvatore  is  awfully  proud 
of  you." 

"Oh,  but  Salvatore  is  no  judge.  He  sees  me  with  ador- 
ing eyes.  But  you,  Signora,  you  can  judge  because  you 
have  not  seen  the  gradual  change  in  my  manners  and  dress. 
You  are  to  be  my  friend,  you  should  not  flatter."  She 
thought  for  a  moment  and  then  said  apologetically,  "I  do 
try  to  do  justice  to  Salvatore,  so  for  his  sake  I  would 
gladly  take  any  hints  you  could  give  me.  It  is  because  I 
am  so  anxious  to  please  him  that  I  have  talked  so  much 
about  myself." 

"I  don't  flatter,  Zita ;  I  remember  our  conversation  that 
afternoon  in  Girgenti." 

"Gia,  gia."  When  Zita  visualised  the  past  intensely,  the 
Sicilian  "gia,  gia,"  slipped  naturally  from  her  lips.  "I 
remember — it  was  the  day  I  told  you  a  lie."  She  laughed. 
"You  never  guessed,  Signora?  You  never  knew?" 

"But  I  know  now,  Zita.  Salvatore  told  me.  And  I 
remember  something  else,  which  he  did  not  tell  me — in  the 
cake-shop  a  young  man  spoke  to  you ;  I  thought  you  cared 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  197 

for  him.  Do  you  remember — you  asked  me  not  to  mention 
it  to  Salvatore."  There  was  another  understanding  pres- 
sure on  her  arm.  "Where  is  he?  Did  you  ever  see  him 
again?  I  was  sure  he  was  in  love  with  you." 

"He  went  to  the  Argentine.  He  too  is  very  wealthy,  so 
I  have  been  told.  He  sends  frozen  meat  to  Italy."  Zita 
laughed.  "Even  a  less  romantic  form  of  wealth  than 
'Omega.' " 

"Is  he  married?  Did  you  never  see  anything  more  of 
him?" 

Zita  shook  her  head.  "I  don't  know — I  don't  think  so. 
Ma,  Signora,  let's  talk  of  happier  things." 

"Was  there  so  much  unhappiness  ?" 

"No,  no.  Only  a  misunderstanding ;  it  all  seems  so  little 
now." 

"Couldn't  Salvatore  have  put  it  right?  Was  the  youth 
jealous?" 

"Salvatore  knew  nothing  about  it.  Sardo  .  .  ."  she 
hesitated  as  she  said  the  name,  "...  he  did  not  under- 
stand ...  it  was  not  his  fault.  He  had  every  reason 
to  suspect  me  ...  to  think  .  .  ."  She  paused. 

"What  did  he  think  ?  Did  someone  tell  lies  about  you  ?" 
Christine's  cheeks  were  aflame ;  her  senses  told  her  who  had 
been  at  the  bottom  of  the  mischief. 

"Sardo  was  not  to  blame." 

"And  you  cared?    What  a  shame!" 

"Perhaps  not.  Signora,  a  young  girl  does  not  know  her 
own  heart."  Zita  broke  off  impulsively.  "Please  do  not 
ask  me  any  more  about  it — I  can  never  tell  you  all  that 
happened.  I  have  quite  forgotten  it ;  only  seeing  you  has 
brought  it  back  to  my  memory." 

"I  didn't  mean  to  be  inquisitive,  Zita — you  know  that, 
don't  you?" 

"It  was  such  a  very  little  affair,  Primavera — you  must 
think  it  absurd  of  me  even  to  remember  it.  To  prove  to 
you  that  I  have  forgotten  all  about  it  I  will  tell  you  a 
secret.  There  is  someone  in  America  who  has  waited  for 


193  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

me  for  a  long  time.  I  would  not  give  him  any  promise 
until  I  had  been  to  Sicily.  I  ..."  she  stopped  abruptly. 

"Is  he  an  Italian?" 

Zita  shook  her  head  as  she  said,  "Oh,  no." 

"Tell  me  about  him.    Why  have  you  kept  him  waiting?" 

"I  don't  really  know.  Perhaps  because  I  have  ceased  to 
be  Sicilian  and  become  a  modern  woman.  I  appreciate  my 
freedom  and  I  find  no-one  as  charming  as  Salvatore.  Our 
life  together  is  almost  perfect.  When  I  was  Sicilian  I 
should,  as  you  know,  have  married  whenever  I  was  old 
enough,  if  I  was  not  too  ugly  or  deformed.  Now,  cara 
arnica,  I  do  not  think  that  marriage  must  be  the  chief  end 
of  woman.  In  America  I  have  found  it  so  disagreeable  to 
say  no;  I  dislike  it  very  much,  don't  you?  But  to  say  yes 
when  you  mean  no  would  be  still  more  unkind." 

Christine  kissed  her  soft  cheek  impulsively.  "You  are 
a  perfect  duck,  Zita.  I  wonder  you  haven't  been  gobbled 
up  long  ago.  You  are  as  pale  as  Dante's  Beatrice;  the 
old  Zita  was  as  sunburnt  as  a  wall  nectarine." 

"I  was  at  school  so  long — you  forget  that.  I  went  to 
school  when  Sicilian  girls  get  married,  and  I  remained  at 
school  until  I  was  twenty-one.  I  spent  all  my  holidays 
with  Salvatore,  and  the  last  school  was  only  a  Pension 
where  the  girls  attended  classes;  we  had  our  chaperones." 

"How  splendid  of  Salvatore !" 

"He  was  so  busy  that  I  had  no  home,  and  I  was  quite 
unsuited  to  live  in  the  fashionable  world  alone.  My 
chaperone  was  very  kind  and  interested  in  my  education." 

"I  don't  wonder,  Zita.  She  had  rather  an  interesting 
occupation,  watching  your  development." 

"I  studied  music  and  French  and  German,  and  of  course 
I  heard  English  all  day  long.  I  had  no  time  for  any  fool- 
ishness." Zita  laughed.  "You  know,  Primavera,  a  rich 
girl  has  to  be  very  wise — I  did  not  know  how  wise  in  the  old 
days.  Money  brings  many  admirers." 

"You  were  always  very  wise,  Zita  mia." 

"No,  no,  you  don't  know !    I  was  very  foolish !" 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  199 

Christine  suddenly  interrupted  her.  She  took  the  girl's 
hands  in  hers  and  held  them  lightly. 

"Do  you  remember  my  husband?"  she  said  breathlessly. 
With  no  preparation  she  suddenly  found  herself  introduc- 
ing the  subject  which  she  had  determined  to  avoid. 

Zita's  eyes  fell.  Her  hands  told  Christine  something  of 
what  she  had  guessed. 

"Tell  me,  Zita — you  needn't  be  afraid — you  can't  hurt 
me.  That  life  is  all  over  and  done  with.  I  remember  you 
used  to  be  afraid  of  him,  you  disliked  him?" 

Zita's  head  was  bowed  over  her  hands;  she  avoided 
Christine's  eyes. 

"Don't  ask  me,"  she  said  almost  in  a  whisper.  "You 
loved  him?" 

"I  once  did,  Zita,  when  I  was  a  romantic  schoolgirl." 

"You  were  unhappy,  Signora?"  Zita's  eyes  were  raised 
to  Christine's. 

"Unhappy  does  not  express  my  married  life,  Zita.  I 
soon  gave  up  expecting  happiness.  When  daily  humilia- 
tions occur  and  go  on  unceasingly,  one  very  soon  does." 
She  smiled.  "For  some  years  I  endured  hell;  there  you 
have  my  story  in  a  nutshell.  But  don't  let  us  spoil  our 
evening  by  discussing  my  woes ;  they  are  past  and  done 
with.  My  quiet  life  in  Ischia  seems  like  having  reached 
heaven  after  enduring  hell." 

"And  he  is  enduring  it  now,  cara  Signora — he  is  endur- 
ing the  suffering  he  deserves."  She  said  the  words  vindic- 
tively ;  her  Sicilian  love  of  revenge  rang  in  her  voice.  "I 
hope  he  is  enduring  the  torments  of  an  awful  hell!"  She 
paused.  "Senta,  Signora  mia,  long  ago  I  wanted  to  warn 
you.  I  tried  to  see  you,  but  he  made  it  impossible.  He 
knew  I  had  sworn  that  I  would  tell  you  the  sort  of  man  he 
was,  so  he  kept  us  apart.  Then  suddenly  we  heard  that 
you  were  going  to  marry  him,  and  I  knew  that  if  you  loved 
him  you  would  not  believe  anything  I  told  you.  Salvatore 
said  it  was  too  late,  far  too  late." 

"Listen !"  Christine  said ;  she  held  up  her  hand.     "Isn't 


200  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

that  your  brother  calling  to  us  ?"  She  was  relieved  by  the 
interruption. 

"Si,  si!  Ecco,  Salvatore!  Come  to  us — we  are  under 
the  arbutus  arbour." 

When  he  reached  them  he  was  still  in  a  detached  state  of 
mind,  exquisitely  gentle  and  appreciative  of  the  night,  and 
to  Christine  his  silence  was  almost  more  eloquent  than  she 
could  endure.  It  spoke  to  her  super-senses ;  it  warned  her 
of  the  man's  nature;  it  urged  her  to  tell  him  the  simple 
truth — that  she  was  not  a  free  woman. 

And  yet  she  was  silent,  although  her  divorce  was  merely 
a  matter  of  expense,  as  silent  as  Salvatore,  for  her  super- 
senses  knew  that  the  future  was  an  unknown  quantity.  The 
present,  so  long  as  they  remained  as  they  were,  was 
delightful. 

"That  is  the  old  lonely,  mysterious  Salvatore,"  Zita  said 
apologetically,  "all  dreams  and  moods ;  the  business  man 
is  lost.  I  often  wonder  how  he  made  a  fortune."  She 
laughed.  "Salvatore  says  that  there  are  two  distinct  Salva- 
tores,  one  for  America  and  one  for  the  old  country." 

"I  am  glad  America  hasn't  killed  the  old  Salvatore, 
aren't  you? — that  his  mind  hasn't  become  all  dollars  and 
trusts !"  Christine  was  relieved  at  the  turn  the  conversa- 
tion had  taken.  "But  I  must  be  going  now — it  is  really 
quite  late.  It  is  so  easy  to  forget  in  Ischia  that  the  night 
is  drifting  into  morning.  There  will  be  no  sleeping  time 
for  me  if  I  don't  go ;  you  people  can  steal  some  hours  from 
the  morning  to  add  to  your  night,  but  I  must  be  up  be- 
times." She  broke  off  suddenly.  "Oh,  Zita,  won't  Sicily 
be  divine?  No  work,  just  sheer  idleness  all  day  long!" 

"Poor  Signora!  I  wish  I  could  do  your  work  for  you 
to-morrow." 

"It  would  be  a  very  poor  Signora  indeed  if  I  hadn't  any 
work  to  get  up  for !  There  would  be  no  polenta  and  not 
even  the  toe  of  a  goldfinch  in  the  festa  macaroni." 

Salvatore  left  them  abruptly.  Christine's  words,  which 
had  been  said  humourously  and  with  no  intention  of  self- 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  201 

pity,  from  their  very  lightheartedness  brought  tears  to  his 

eyes. 

Silently  Salvatore  saw  Christine  to  her  cottage-door.  He 
could  not  trust  himself  to  speak  as  he  walked  by  her  side. 
He  wondered  if  he  could  endure  the  strain  of  being  in  Sicily 
with  her,  if  he  were  to  keep  his  promise  and  remain  her 
friend. 

The  very  fact  that  Christine  had  accepted  his  silence, 
that  she  had  not  made  its  understanding  less  complete 
by  the  vulgarity  of  words,  had  unfurled  the  sails  of  his 
desires  and  set  them  adrift  on  shoreless  seas. 

•  •.««•• 

"Addio,  Primavera,"  he  said.  "I  have  been  a  poor  and 
stupid  companion  and  a  very  remiss  host."  He  held  out 
his  hand. 

She  clasped  it  eagerly.  Christine's  hands  were  beauti- 
fully human.  "Don't  say  that!"  she  said.  "If  we  are 
to  be  true  friends  we  must  be  perfectly  natural;  we  must 
be  ourselves.  You  have  many  things  on  your  mind." 

"No,  no!"  he  said  impatiently.  "You  know  it  is  only 
one  thing — my  promise."  He  looked  at  her.  "My  promise 
that  we  are  to  be  friends." 

"Oh,  but  we  are  that  already!"  she  said  with  assumed 
lightness.  "You  need  not  look  so  grave." 

"Cara  signora,"  he  said  softly,  "let  your  words  be  as 
sincere  as  your  silence." 

Her  hand  was  dropped  suddenly,  then  quickly  he  raised 
it  again  to  his  lips.  Christine  shivered  as  she  felt  his 
breath  on  her  flesh.  Salvatore's  sensibilities  were  wounded. 
She  was  a  married  woman — why  had  she  repulsed  this  ordi- 
nary form  of  politeness? 

"You  are  not  yet  accustomed  to  our  Italian  courtesies, 
Signora  ?  Forgive  me !" 

"I  couldn't  help  it.  It  was  silly  of  me,  but  .  .  ."  she 
spoke  brokenly  ".  .  .  Tie  used  to  do  it.  The  first  time 
I  ever  saw  a  man  kiss  a  woman's  hand  was  at  Girgenti ;  he 


202  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

used  to  kiss  my  aunt's  hand.  The  memory  of  it  came  back 
with  your  kiss." 

"Cara  Signora,  I  understand.  Cara  Signora!  Cara 
Signora !" 

"I  thought  it  was  such  a  pretty   custom.     And  now 

.  .  !"  She  tried  to  laugh.  "It  always  brings  back 
his  personality,  and  my  fears,  and  .  .  ."  she  hesitated — 
"all  my  aunt's  warnings  and  a  host  of  other  things  which 
it  is  wiser  to  forget." 

"Primavera !     Primavera !" 

Salvatore  left  her  abruptly.  His  words  in  her  ears  were 
a  wounded  cry.  She  watched  him  almost  run  up  the  rough 
road  until  she  could  see  him  no  longer,  and  then  she  went 
back  to  her  cottage,  stumbling  as  if  she  were  drunk,  her 
hands  held  out  for  guidance. 


CHAPTER  XXI  - 

THE  trio  had  been  a  fortnight  in  Sicily  and  nothing  had 
happened  to  disturb  the  friendly  attitude  which  Salvatore 
had  managed  to  maintain  towards  Christine  ever  since  they 
had  left  Ischia.  He  was,  of  course,  very  wise,  for  if  Chris- 
tine had  been  attracted  to  him  and  had  liked  him  very  much 
before  they  went  to  Sicily,  she  had  during  this  wonderful 
fortnight  grown  fonder  and  fonder  of  him  and  her  respect 
for  him  had  increased  each  day.  He  was  keeping  his  pact 
admirably — he  was,  in  fact,  allowing  Christine  both  to  eat 
her  cake  and  keep  it.  He  was  behaving  outwardly  as  a 
friend,  while  his  deeper  self  kept  her  senses  tuned  to  con- 
cert pitch. 

Salvatore  was  an  ideal  lover.  Pan  piped  the  songs  which 
he  dared  not  sing,  while  the  gods  lay  in  ambush  in  the  hills 
and  secret  passes.  For  two  weeks  the  game  had  gone  on 
merrily. 

Zita  and  Christine  had  become  good  comrades.  From 
the  day  of  their  departure  from  Ischia  they  had  arrived  at 


203 

an  unspoken  understanding — that  for  Christine  the  past 
was  taboo. 

They  had  arrived  at  Girgenti  at  the  end  of  the  second 
week.  They  went  to  a  native  inn,  which  stands  up  on  the 
city  bastions  and  commands  a  superb  view  of  the  distant 
temples  and  the  landscape,  which  reaches  to  the  sea,  the 
country  over  which  Salvatore  had  always  journeyed  to 
reach  the  Temple  of  Aesculapius. 

It  was  a  fine  old"inn,  managed  in  the  true  Sicilian  fashion. 
Rough  terracotta  jars  served  them  for  their  bedroom 
water-jugs  and  the  old  tiled  floors  were  carpetless.  To 
Zita  the  inn  was  amusing  and  interesting ;  it  proved  to  her 
what  a  long  way  she  had  travelled  from  the  simplicity  of 
her  early  days.  Ten  years  ago  it  would  have  seemed  to  her 
very  luxurious.  Now  her  dainty  clothes  seemed  absurd  in 
the  huge  bare  bedroom,  which  was  devoid  of  any  wardrobes. 
When  Christine  saw  her  very  modern  lingerie  and  delicate 
clothing  hanging  from  the  one  peg  she  laughed  until  the 
tears  swam  in  her  eyes;  they  looked  so  disconsolate  and 
pathetic,  for  although  the  room  was  as  large  as  a  chapel  it 
was  as  bare  as  a  barn. 

But  nothing  could  dim  the  radiance  of  those  first  days  in 
Sicily,  certainly  not  the  lack  of  luxury.  Zita  had  regained 
her  girlhood,  she  was  La  Gioconda  once  more. 

On  this  particular  night  there  was  to  be  a  banquet  given 
to  Salvatore  by  the  citizens  of  Girgenti ;  he  was  to  be  pre- 
sented with  the  Italian  equivalent  of  the  Freedom  of  the 
City.  After  it  was  over  Christine  and  Zita  were  to  attend 
the  soiree  and  hear  the  speeches. 

In  the  afternoon  they  decided  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  Casa 
Salvatore.  When  they  arrived  at  the  cottage,  Christine 
had  to  be  the  spokeswoman;  Zita  was  too  overcome  with 
emotion.  To  bring  a  little  lightness  into  the  situation  she 
said  to  Salvatore,  who  was  as  silent  as  his  sister: 

"I  am  not  going  to  ask  for  a  Venus  this  time — I  am 
coming  to  visit  the  house  of  a  distinguished  citizen.  Casa 
Salvatore  has  become  a  "monumento  nazionale.'  " 


204  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

He  smiled.  He  was  in  a  dream.  The  little  home  was 
unaltered,  but  how  small  it  had  become !  He  stepped  inside 
at  the  gracious  invitation  of  the  yellow-faced  woman, 
obviously  a  victim  to  fever,  who  was  greatly  surprised  and 
honoured.  How  near  the  walls  were!  And  the  old  table, 
how  it  filled  the  room !  Zita,  who  had  quickly  regained  her 
composure,  was  talking  to  the  woman. 

"Non  mai,  Signorina,  you  lived  here  ?  In  this  cottage  ?" 
she  stared  at  her  visitors. 

"Gia,  gia,  Signora,  I  lived  here  and  my  brother  used  to 
sit  here,  with  books  on  the  table,  so  late  every  night  that 
he  used  to  fall  asleep  over  them." 

"The  Cavaliere?"  The  woman's  fever-bright  eyes  grew 
bigger;  her  amazement  increased. 

"Veramente,  Signora.  And  my  mother  also  lived  here; 
she  died  here." 

Salvatore  had  laid  his  hand  on  the  woman's  shoulder ;  his 
eyes  smiled  into  hers.  "Alas !  Signora  Majelli,  if  only  my 
wealth  could  have  come  in  time  to  give  my  mother  ease  and 
comfort !" 

"Ah,  Signore !"    She  threw  up  her  eyes. 

"I  have  learnt,  donna  mia,  that  money  never  gets  near 
the  heart  of  things.  It  still  leaves  happiness  round  the 
corner." 

"But  money  is  power,  Signore."  Her  eyes  became 
flames. 

"Is  power  happiness,  Signora?" 

The  woman's  face  changed;  it  became  vindictive;  her 
gracious  smile  was  lost  in  the  cruel  expression  which  trans- 
formed it.  "Power  means  revenge,  Signore,  and  revenge 
is  sweeter  than  good  meat  and  plenty  to  drink!  Revenge 
enables  us  to  endure !" 

Christine,  who  had  been  listening  to  the  conversation, 
knew  how  Sicilian  was  the  quick  fire  of  anger  and  the 
woman's  undying  desire  for  revenge.  She  herself  had 
suffered  and  had  probably  been  treated  as  badly  as  the 
woman  who  so  thirsted  for  her  enemy's  blood,  yet  she  had 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  205 

not  the  slightest  desire  for  revenge  or  wish  to  do  her  hus- 
band any  harm.  All  she  wanted  was  never  to  see  or  hear 
of  him  again.  She  looked  at  Salvatore.  Although  he  was 
not  encouraging  the  woman  in  her  outburst  of  hate,  his 
eyes  were  sympathetic;  he  was  inside  her  mental  attitude. 
Christine  was  not. 

When  Zita  returned  from  the  room  which  had  been  her 
bedroom,  she  took  her  brother's  arm  and  silently  they  stood 
side  by  side,  looking  down  at  the  floor  in  front  of  the 
Sicilian  stove.  Suddenly  Zita  threw  herself  into  his  arms 
and  wept  just  as  she  had  wept  years  ago  when  they  had 
stood  on  the  same  spot  looking  down  on  the  buried  urns. 
It  was  only  for  a  moment,  and  the  little  outburst  and 
loss  of  control  was  the  climax  of  a  day  of  pent-up 
emotions. 

"Forgive  me,  arnica  mia,"  she  said  to  Christine.  "I 
really  felt  as  if  my  poor  throat  would  burst  if  I  did  not 
cry.  It  is  all  so  poignant  with  memories."  She  looked 
ashamed ;  she  had  behaved  foolishly. 

It  was  Christine  who  broke  the  strain  of  the  situation. 
She  had  not  guessed  that  there  was  another  reason  for 
Zita's  display  of  emotion  other  than  of  sentiment  and  over- 
strained nerves. 

"Zita  mia,"  she  said,  "in  that  corner  cupboard  up  there 
you  kept  the  jewel-case — I  remember  it  quite  well.  What 
if  I  had  jumped  up  to  look?" 

"I  knew  you  were  too  polite,  Primavera." 

"Was  my  second  visit  worth  the  lie?" 

"Yes.  And  it  was  for  Salvatore  I  told  it,"  Zita  whis- 
pered laughingly.  "He  was  so  good  to  me,  and  I  wanted 
to  give  him  pleasure." 

Christine  blushed.  "Anyhow,  you  told  a  fib  and  I 
thought  you  so  truthful!  I  did  believe  anything  then — 
you  know  what  I  mean." 

An  expression  of  anguish  changed  Zita's  face  as  quickly 
as  the  look  of  revenge  had  changed  the  yellow  face  of  the 
woman. 


206  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

"Don't  be  silly !"  Christine  said  quickly.  "I  didn't  mean 
to  hurt  you.  I  know  now  how  absurd  it  was  to  believe 
anything  my  husband  told  me  about  Salvatore!  I  should 
have  come  and  said  good-bye  to  you — I  could  have  managed 
to  do  it  somehow.  But  when  he  told  me  that  lie  about 
him,  I  just  said  to  myself,  'Then,  after  all,  Salvatore  Maz- 
zini  is  just  a  charming  liar  and  a  clever  rogue.'" 

"Signora!  Signora!"  Zita's  mind  was  back  in  the  old 
days.  Christine  was  the  Signorina,  the  beautiful  Prima- 
vera ;  this  was  their  home ;  she  could  even  smell  the  delicate 
perfume  which  came  with  her  presence  like  the  drifting 
scent  of  spring  flowers.  Her  words  were  nothing,  only 
"Signora !  Signora !"  Yet  they  made  Christine  stop  and 
look  at  the  girl  wonderingly.  Her  face  was  absurdly 
tragic;  her  eyes  were  mysteriously  eloquent. 

"What  have  I  said,  Zita?"  Christine  whispered.  "Come 
along — we  have  been  too  long  here !  I  told  you  both  that 
it  would  be  trying  for  sensitive  natures.  I  think  I  must 
be  awfully  hard,  Zita — I  just  won't  let  old  memories  spoil 
my  Sicily.  And  after  all,  it  is  I,  not  you,  who  have  reason 
to  weep !" 

"You  have  been  happy  with  us,  Primavera  ?" 

"Happy  isn't  the  word,  you  dear  child !" 

"Sometimes  my  brother  is  so  quiet,  so  abstracted,  that  I 
am  afraid  you  may  think  he  does  not  appreciate  the  pleas- 
ure of  your  society."  Zita  shook  her  head.  "It  is  just," 
she  smiled  tenderly,  "just  Salvatore,  Signora." 

"Just  Salvatore !"  Christine  said  tenderly.  "And  a  very 
good  thing  to  be,  Zita !  I  don't  mind  any  of  his  moods,  and 
to-night  he  has  his  great  speech  to  make  and  his  address 
to  receive.  No  wonder  he  is  absent-minded." 

"To-night  may  test  your  true  feelings  for  him;  his 
speech  means  more  to  us  both  than  you  understand.  But 
please  do  not  ask  me  about  it ;  I  promised  I  would  not  tell 
you.  Let  us  find  Salvatore — he  will  be  in  his  old  workshop 
at  the  back  of  the  cottage." 

Salvatore  did  not  hear  them  enter  his  workshop.     He 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  207 

was  seated  at  the  old  bench,  with  his  head  in  his  arms, 
which  were  stretched  across  it. 

"Salvatore  mio,  fratello  mio!"  Zita's  words  were 
whispered  while  her  arm  went  round  his  neck.  She  knew 
that  he  was  living  again  in  the  past. 

He  raised  his  eyes  and  saw  that  Christine  was  with  her. 
"Cara  bambina,"  he  said  apologetically,  "we  have  been 
much  too  long  here.  Come  along." 

In  the  living  room  the  sick  woman  was  seated  in  its 
darkest  corner;  her  bones  hated  the  sun.  She  was  slowly 
picking  some  good  rice  from  a  sieve  which  contained  about 
ninety  per  cent,  of  inedible  rubbish.  When  Salvatore  put 
a  handful  of  silver  in  her  wire  sieve,  she  seized  both  his 
hands  and  raised  them  to  her  lips,  while  large  tears  fell  into 
her  worthless  rice.  The  sudden  possession  of  so  much 
wealth  was  too  much  for  her  enfeebled  condition.  She  was 
still  thanking  him  and  blessing  him  as  they  left  the  cottage. 
She  was  jangling  the  money  in  her  hands;  the  sound  of  it 
delighted  her. 

As  they  were  descending  a  short  flight  of  steps  which 
took  them  to  their  hotel,  Christine  slipped  on  a  piece  of 
orange-peel.  Zita  had  gone  ahead.  As  she  slipped  Salva- 
tore's  arms  went  round  her;  for  one  moment  he  held  her 
crushed  to  his  breast.  Then  he  set  her  on  her  feet,  without 
even  asking  her  if  she  was  hurt. 

In  that  brief  embrace  Christine  undid  the  work  of  weeks. 
The  incident  was  over  in  less  than  two  minutes,  but  it  had 
revealed  to  both  of  them  the  fact  that  they  had  been  lovers 
from  the  first.  That  quick  embrace  left  no  room  for  denial. 

Christine  had  to  calmly  assure  Zita  that  no  harm  was 
done,  the  ankle  was  not  strained.  It  was  difficult  to  speak 
reasonably  and  collectedly  when  nothing  seemed  to  matter 
but  Salvatore's  embrace.  It  had  blotted  out  every  other 
feature  of  the  day.  It  had  warned  her  that  she  could  no 
longer  play  with  her  own  feelings.  She  was  angry  at  her 
prosaic  surroundings !  she  had  to  be  dignified  and  con- 
ventionally pleasant,  while  otherwise  they  might  have 


208  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

been — no,  they  could  not  be  that,  not  yet;  she  must  tell 
him  first. 

"I'm  afraid  that  we  must  have  wearied  you,  Primavera, 
with  our  sentimental  journey,"  Salvatore  managed  to  say. 
"Zita  and  I  lost  ourselves ;  the  years  rolled  back." 

Of  course  Christine  assured  them  that  she  had  not  been 
bored,  but  greatly  interested.  And  she  spoke  the  truth, 
for  it  had  been  interesting  from  a  psychological  point  of 
view.  The  visit  to  their  old  home  had  proved  that  Salva- 
tore and  Zita  were  too  well-bred  to  understand  the  meaning 
of  the  word  "snobbish."  There  was  something  delightfully 
ingenuous  about  Salvatore;  it  was  his  most  endearing 
quality. 

When  they  reached  the  rambling  old  Albergo,  Zita  sug- 
gested that  when  they  had  finished  their  tea,  which  she 
always  got  Christine  to  make — they  had  with  them  a  well- 
appointed  tea-basket — they  should  lie  down  and  rest  until 
it  was  time  for  Salvatore  to  go  to  the  banquet.  Salvatore 
seconded  the  idea ;  Zita  looked  tired,  and  while  they  rested 
he  would  go  over  his  speech  and  make  himself  word-perfect. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

SOME  hours  later,  as  they  entered  the  crowded  hall  where 
he  was  to  deliver  his  speech,  Zita  slipped  her  hand  into 
Christine's  arm.  The  girl's  eyes  expressed  emotion. 

She  said  earnestly,  "Primavera,  I  told  you  that  this 
speech  may  make  a  difference  to  our  position  in  your  eyes. 
You  will  be  surprised.  He  has  something  to  announce  to 
the  people  which  will  astonish  you." 

Christine  did  not  answer.  There  was  nothing  to  be  said ; 
but  she  wondered  what  he  could  have  to  tell  the  people  that 
mattered  so  greatly.  Why  had  he  never  alluded  to  it? 
Anyhow,  it  could  be  nothing  which  could  affect  her  feelings 
for  him. 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  209 

Although  he  could  not  see  her,  he  knew  the  moment  she 
entered  the  building.  He  was  on  the  platform,  seated  in 
the  centre  of  a  group  of  important  citizens,  who  were  all 
very  grave  and  heavy  with  official  responsibility.  An 
illuminated  address  was  to  be  presented  to  Salvatore  by  the 
Sindaco,  who  made  a  flowing  and  eloquent  speech  on  behalf 
of  the  magistrates  and  the  citizens  of  Girgenti.  In  it  he 
welcomed  the  illustrious  Cavaliere  back  to  his  old  home. 
Girgenti  was  proud  of  Salvatore  Mazzini ;  he  was  the  type 
of  citizen  to  whom  everyone  could  point  as  an  example  of 
all  that  was  best  in  a  Sicilian  gentleman  and  a  patriot. 
For  himself,  he  could  only  say  that  he  could  wish  for  no 
greater  good  fortune  than  that  his  two  sons  should  take 
Salvatore  as  their  example.  If  either  of  them  should  ever 
achieve  the  position  which  the  Cavaliere  held  in  the  opinion 
of  the  citizens  of  Girgenti,  he  would  be  a  proud  father. 

This  and  much  more  of  a  similar  nature  was  poured  out 
with  true  Sicilian  eloquence  and  elegance  of  expression. 
Salvatore  was  thanked  for  the  many  benefits  which  he  had 
conferred  on  the  town,  such  as  the  Chair  which  he  had 
founded  at  the  University  for  Archaeological  Research,  and 
the  Hospital  for  Children  which  his  enthusiasm  had  started 
and  his  liberal  donations  made  possible. 

Christine  listened  eagerly  to  every  word  of  the  Sindaco's 
speech.  It  was  all  new  to  her,  for  neither  Zita  nor  Salva- 
tore had  ever  mentioned  any  of  these  things.  Her  spirits 
rose  as  she  heard  them ;  her  heart  was  full  of  pride.  She 
was  too  shy  to  take  more  than  a  glance  at  Salvatore,  who 
was  very  pale  and  nervous.  He  could  not,  she  knew,  be 
feeling  nervous  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word,  not 
nervous  in  such  a  gathering,  when  he  must  have  been  enter- 
tained very  often  in  a  much  more  imposing  manner  and 
have  spoken  on  occasions  of  far  greater  importance.  But 
it  is  always  more  trying  to  fill  the  position  of  a  hero  or  of 
a  celebrity  amongst  one's  own  people.  In  Girgenti  Salva- 
tore was  in  his  own  family  circle ;  familiar  faces,  old  smiles 
and  peculiar  gestures  met  his  eyes  whichever  way  he  looked. 


210  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

"Come  sta?"  was  called  out  to  him  every  other  minute; 
sometimes  he  was  "Signore"  or  "Cavaliere" ;  other  times  it 
was  "Nostro  Salvatore"  or  "Salvatore  lui  stesso"  (Salva- 
tore  himself). 

Zita,  in  her  fashionable  clothes,  had  at  first  struck  fear 
into  their  hearts;  they  stood  more  in  awe  of  her  than  of 
Salvatore,  until  the  girl  spoke  to  them  and  won  their  hearts 
by  her  simplicity.  Then  she  was  "La  Gioconda,"  "bambina 
Zita,"  "the  little  orphan."  They  would  have  been  hard 
hearts  indeed  which  were  not  won  by  the  girl's  charm  and 
beauty. 

"Isn't  it  fun,"  she  would  say  with  laughing  lips  and 
friendly  eyes,  "isn't  it  fun  to  see  your  little  orphan  turned 
into  a  grand  lady?  But  do  you  know,  no  cakes  ever  taste 
like  the  cakes  you  used  to  send  us  each  Pasqua  ?  We  never 
forget  them." 

When  Salvatore  rose  to  make  his  speech,  he  was  so  pale 
and  nervous  that  Zita's  hand  found  its  way  into  Christine's. 
Her  tightening  grasp  told  Christine  how  agitated  the  girl 
was.  There  must  be  some  strange  reason  for  her  anxiety, 
for  the  Cavaliere  was  known  to  be  a  fine  speaker. 

Salvatore  had  raised  his  hand.  The  cheering  was  deaf- 
ening, but  his  hand  was  eloquent.  Hands  as  well  as  lips 
speak  in  Sicily,  and  Salvatore's  raised  hand  begged  for 
silence. 

"Silenzio,"  he  said,  "per  piacere  aspetta."  There  was 
a  sudden  quietness,  a  tense  quietness  of  roused  expectancy. 
This  was  a  new  and  striking  way  to  begin  a  popular  speech. 
He  had  silenced  their  welcome !  , — 

"Onorevoli  Signori,"  Salvatore  said  as  he  bowed  to  the 
Sindaco  and  to  the  grave  cittadini  on  the  platform :  "Ono- 
revoli Signori,"  he  said  again  as  he  faced  the  audience; 
"Miei  amici,  I  must  ask  you  to  wait  until  I  have  told  you 
what  I  have  long  wanted  to  tell  you,  before  you  give  voice 
to  your  expression  of  welcome.  If  after  that  you  still 
think  me  worthy  of  this  address  and  of  your  friendship, 
then  please  raise  your  voices  and  give  me  welcome." 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

There  was  an  attempted  interruption.  Cries  of  "Viva 
Salvatore!"  "Nostro  Salvatore!"  rang  through  the  hall. 

"Aspetta,  aspetta!"  he  said  gravely.  "I  am  going  to 
tell  you  my  story  in  as  few  words  as  possible."  He  smiled. 
"You  must  bear  with  me,  for  I  am  afraid  that  like  many 
others,  I  have  lost  my  native  grace  of  speech  in  America. 
In  my  pursuit  of  wealth  I  have  lost  better  things." 

There  were  cries  of  "No !  No !" 

He  held  up  his  hand.  "Senta,  this  is  my  story:  Once 
upon  a  time  I  was  very  poor,  you  all  know  how  poor.  So 
poor  that  very  often  I  should  have  slept  better  at  night  if 
I  had  been  less  'hungry.  But  I  was  ambitious,  intellectually 
ambitious  and  curious.  I  had  no  thoughts  in  those  days  of 
great  wealth ;  I  only  wanted  money  enough  to  study  for 
two  years  at  the  University  and  to  help  me  to  carry  out  my 
dream  of  reviving  one  of  the  old  earthenware  industries  of 
Sicily.  I  was  earning  at  that  time  one  franc  forty  per 
day ;  there  is  not  much  to  be  saved  off  that.  But  I  had  the 
means  of  adding  a  little  to  my  income  by  selling  to  the 
forestieri  who  came  to  see  the  temples  the  small  objects  I 
dug  up  which  the  Museum  did  not  want  or  the  archaeological 
authorities  did  not  wish  to  keep."  Salvatore  paused. 

Zita's  fingers  were  crushing  Christine's  hands.  A  flash 
of  understanding  suddenly  came  to  Christine.  Her  whole 
being  waited  for  Salvatore's  next  words;  her  lips  were 
tightly  closed. 

"I  was  trusted,"  Salvatore  said  very  slowly  and  dis- 
tinctly. "I  was  trusted."  The  words  rang  through  the 
building.  "I  was  trusted,  my  friends,  by  the  authorities 
and  by  every-one.  Onorevoli  Signori,  miei  amici,  I  be- 
trayed that  trust." 

There  was  a  low  cry  through  the  audience :  "No !  No ! 
non  e  vero !  Impossible !" 

Salvatore's  voice  rose  above  the  cries.  "Si,  si,  Signori, 
I  betrayed  that  trust.  I  was  under  an  oath  that  I  would 
ehow  all  that  I  found,  all  buried  treasure,  to  the  local  au- 
thorities and  to  my  employer;  all  objects  of  any  particular 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

value  or  interest  which  I  found  were  taken  away  from  me." 

Cries  of  "Shame!  Shame!"  interrupted  him. 

"No,  no,  Signori.  It  was  just  and  right.  They  were 
the  treasures  of  Girgenti;  they  belonged  to  Girgenti.  I 
was  only  paid  for  finding  them."  He  held  up  his  hand. 
"Will  you  not  listen  to  the  rest  of  my  confession?  One 
day  by  accident  I  found  two  Greek  urns,  marvels  of  ancient 
Greek  art.  They  had  been  made  for  prizes  to  be  given  to 
the  heroes  in  some  games.  They  were  worth  a  large  sum 
of  money."  He  paused. 

Christine,  who  had  not  dared  to  look  at  his  eyes,  was 
watching  the  nervous  twisting  of  his  fingers ;  her  own  fair 
cheeks  were  burning. 

"Signori,"  he  said,  "I  kept  those  two  urns.  I  showed 
them  to  only  one  person,  my  accomplice."  Salvatore's  voice 
broke. 

A  cry  of  sympathy  rang  through  the  hall,  cries  of 
"Quite  right !  Quite  right !  They  were  yours  !  Who  finds 
keeps !" 

"My  friend,  I  have  not  finished.  My  accomplice  helped 
me  to  sell  them ;  he  sent  me  a  purchaser,  a  wealthy  Ameri- 
can who  was  ignorant  of  the  sin  I  was  committing.  I 
shared  the  money  with  my  companion  in  dishonesty."  He 
paused,  and  as  he  paused  his  eyes  met  Christine's.  "Will 
you  hear  the  rest  of  my  story?"  he  addressed  the  audience. 

Cries  of  "Si !  Si.  Caro  amico !  Caro  Salvatore !"  gave 
him  courage. 

"I  thought  I  was  rich.  I  went  to  Rome.  My  sister  and 
I  nearly  starved.  In  that  great  capital,  the  sum  which 
I  had  thought  so  vast  proved  very,  very  little.  But, 
Signori,  I  succeeded.  Everything  I  did  seemed  to  bring  me 
good  luck.  You  all  know  by  this  time  that  my  fortune  was 
not  made  off  the  small  industry  which  I  have  started  at 
Licata."  He  smiled.  "It  costs  me  a  fortune,  my  friends." 

He  took  a  sip  of  water  from  the  tumbler  at  his  side.  His 
nervousness  was  disappearing  as  the  attitude  of  his 
audience  became  more  and  more  reassuring.  His  earlier 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  213 

pallor  and  agitation  were  not  so  noticeable.  Zita  had 
loosened  her  grip  on  Christine's  hands. 

"I  have  one  thing  more  to  tell  you,"  he  said.  "During 
the  last  two  or  three  years  I  have  become  a  wealthy  man, 
but  I  have  always  felt  that  the  foundation  of  my  wealth 
was  built  upon  dishonour." 

Cries  of  "No !  No !  Signore !"  rose  once  more. 

"Yes,  Signori,  I  could  not  have  gone  to  Rome  without 
that  sum  of  money." 

"The  urns  were  yours — you  round  them    .    .    ." 

"I  stole  them.  Give  the  words  their  true  meaning.  I 
stole  them  and  bitterly  have  I  regretted  my  dishonesty." 
He  turned  to  the  Sindaco.  "Onorevoli  Signori,  I  am  in 
your  hands,  but  before  you  sentence  me  let  me  tell  you  that 
the  first  thing  I  did  when  I  was  well  enough  off  was  to  find 
the  gentleman  in  America  who  had  bought  the  vases  and 
then  buy  them  back  from  him."  A  cry  of  delight  filled  the 
hall.  "I  bought  them,  miei  amici,  and  they  are  here.  They 
are  waiting  to  be  put  in  their  rightful  place,  in  your 
Museum." 

Almost  immediately  a  servant  brought  in  first  one  urn 
and  then  the  other.  They  were  placed  on  a  table  in  full 
view  of  the  audience.  It  was  the  first  time  that  Zita  had 
seen  them  since  she  had  helped  Salvatore  to  take  them  away 
in  pig-skins  from  their  cottage.  She  could  not  keep  back 
her  emotion.  Christine  tried  to  screen  her,  but  Salvatore 
saw  her.  He  was  speaking  again. 

"There  is  just  one  thing  more  I  should  like  to  tell  you, 
Onorevoli  Signori,  miei  amici.  My  sister,  your  old  friend, 
La  Gioconda,  took  no  part  in  my  dishonour ;  she  implored 
me  not  to  stain  our  father's  name.  So  whatsoever  measure 
of  blame  you  may  bestow  on  me,  remember  that  La  Gio- 
conda is  above  suspicion.  And  now  I  have  done,  Signori, 
and  I  thank  you  for  your  patience." 

Salvatore  sat  down.  A  roar  of  applause  burst  as  if 
from  one  giant  voice;  it  was  startling.  Sicilian  cries  of 
comradeship,  affection  and  admiration  poured  out  one  upon 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

another.  "Caro  Salvatore!  Illustrissimo  Signore!  Ono- 
revole  Cavaliere !  Amico  generoso !" 

These  cries  of  affectionate  sympathy  left  little  doubt  in 
Salvatore's  mind  as  to  his  position  in  the  hearts  of  the 
people.  When  the  prolonged  applause  and  expressions  of 
welcome  had  died  down,  he  rose  again.  His  face  was  almost 
paler  than  it  had  been  before,  but  his  eyes  were  luminous, 
and  his  smile  youthful  and  happy. 

"Cari  amici,  concittadini,  I  thank  you,  your  welcome  is 
almost  more  than  I  can  bear.  I  came  among  you  to-night 
not  knowing  with  what  feelings  I  should  leave  you.  I  am 
leaving  you  with  a  heart  so  full  of  gladness  that  emotion 
robs  me  of  all  eloquence.  You  have  shown  me  that  there  is 
no  longer  a  stain  on  the  Casa  Salvatore.  I  know  that,  in 
spite  of  my  confession,  'i  orfani,' "  he  smiled,  "have  still  a 
place  in  your  hearts,  that  I  am  forgiven." 

"Nostro  Salvatore,  there's  nothing  to  forgive!  Our 
hearts  are  full  of  gratitude !  Viva  la  Casa  Salvatore !  Viva 
i  orfani." 

Salvatore  acknowledged  the  interruption  with  a  happy 
smile.  The  audience  was  listening  again ;  he  turned  to  the 
Sindaco. 

"Onorevoli  Signori,  will  you  grant  me  the  privilege  of 
presenting,  or  rather  I  should  say,  returning  to  the  city  of 
Girgenti,  these  two  urns?"  He  lifted  one  of  the  urns  in 
his  hands  and  held  it  up  to  the  audience.  As  he  placed  it  on 
the  table  again,  there  was  another  outburst  of  applause, 
which  had  to  be  silenced. 

The  Mayor  rose  to  speak.  He  accepted  the  urns  quite 
simply  while  he  shook  Salvatore's  hand,  but  the  speech 
which  followed  was  one  of  those  verbose  Italian  speeches 
which  pour  on  like  a  cataract.  There  is  no  public  speaker 
more  tedious  than  a  pompous  Italian. 

When  at  last  all  the  speeches  came  to  an  end,  and  Salva- 
tore had  been  cheered  again  and  again,  there  was  a  sudden 
cry  of :  "Where  is  Zita  ?  We  want  you,  Zita !  La  Gio- 
conda !  Cara  bambina !" 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  215 

Zita  at  the  first  sound  of  her  name  tried  to  escape. 

"You  must  go  on  to  the  platform,"  Christine  said. 
"They  want  you — listen !  They  will  go  on  until  you  do." 

Zita  shrank  back  still  further  in  her  chair.  "No,  no.  I 
can't  speak  to  them,  and  I  shall  only  look  foolish  if  I  cry. 
I've  been  nearly  crying  all  evening.  I  can't  go." 

The  cries  of  "Dove  e  Zita?  Dove  e  la  Gioconda?"  grew 
louder  and  more  insistent.  She  sprang  to  her  feet;  their 
affection  gave  her  courage.  Salvatore  helped  her  on  to  the 
platform. 

For  a  moment  or  two  she  stood  quietly  looking  at  the 
audience,  then  she  kissed  her  hand  and  smiled  and  cried  and 
smiled  again.  Zita  cried  adorably;  her  tears  were  jewels. 

The  familiar  words :  "Carina !  Carina  bambina !  Come 
€  bella !  Come  e  simpatica !"  rang  through  the  hall,  while 
other  voices  demanded:  "A  speech!" 

When  the  cries  of  welcome  died  down  Zita  tried  to  make 
her  escape,  but  that  was  not  allowed.  The  demand  for  a 
speech  increased  in  insistence.  So  far  she  had  only  smiled 
and  said,  "Grazie,  grazie."  She  begged  Salvatore  to  say 
a  few  words  of  thanks  for  her. 

"No,  no!"  he  whispered.  "Say  them  yourself — just 
anything,  bambina." 

She  shook  her  head.  "Tell  them  that  my  heart  is  too 
full  to  speak.  .  .  .  No  wait.  .  .  .  Tell  them  I  will 
sing;  say  I  have  never  spoken  in  public." 

When  Salvatore  repeated  her  words,  there  was  an  en- 
thusiastic response.  "A  song!  A  song!"  came  from  a 
hundred  lips. 

Of  course  there  was  a  piano  on  the  platform.  Zita  stood 
by  it  for  a  moment,  lost  in  thought.  What  song  should  she 
sing?  Salvatore  was  to  play  for  her.  She  whispered  to 
him,  "Caro  nome." 

They  all  knew  that  and  loved  it.  As  he  played  over  the 
prelude  to  "Caro  nome"  there  was  a  murmur  of  gratifica- 
tion, and  cries  of  "  'Caro  nome,'  Zita !  'Caro  nome,'  Zita 
Mazzini !" 


216  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

No-one  in  Girgenti  had  ever  heard  "Caro  nome"  sung  as 
Zita  sang  it  that  night.  Emotion  gave  the  song  a  passion 
and  beauty  which  touched  every  heart  in  the  hall.  It  was 
just  like  Zita,  Christine  said  to  herself,  as  she  listened  to 
the  girl's  perfectly-trained  voice,  not  to  wish  to  show  off 
her  knowledge  of  good  music  by  singing  some  song  which 
the  townspeople  could  not  have  enjoyed.  She  knew  that 
"Caro  nome"  would  reach  every  heart. 

Zita's  judgment  had  been  correct.  "Dear  name,"  "Dear 
name,"  were  the  words  on  every  man's  and  woman's  lips, 
as  they  elbowed  their  way  out  of  the  hall.  "  'Dear  name,' 
Zita  Mazzini." 

Salvatore  was  not  allowed  to  walk  to  his  hotel.  He  was 
carried  shoulder  high  by  the  students  of  the  University, 
while  Zita  and  Christine  were  placed  with  much  dignity  in 
the  old-fashioned  barouche  which  was  kept  at  the  expense 
of  the  city  for  the  use  of  the  city  dignitaries.  The  Sin- 
daco  himself  conducted  Zita  and  Christine  to  their  hotel. 
They  were  both  so  tired  that  they  could  have  cried  when 
they  found  that  the  verbose  gentleman  meant  driving  in  the 
carriage  beside  them,  but  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but 
accept  the  attention  gracefully. 

When  at  last  they  were  left  to  themselves  and  were  walk- 
ing along  the  corridor  to  their  sitting-room,  Zita  said 
apologetically,  "If  course,  I  ought  to  have  invited  him  to 
come  in,  Christine.  He  ought  to  have  drunk  our  health  in 
Marsala  and  made  a  thousand  more  eloquent  speeches." 
She  threw  back  her  head.  "Well,  I  just  couldn't !  In  that 
respect  I  have  ceased  to  be  a  Sicilian.  And  I  never  was  so 
tired  in  my  life !" 

She  was  so  tired  that  she  even  dreaded  the  intimate  con- 
versation which  there  must  be  between  herself  and  Christine 
when  they  were  alone.  She  was  not  quite  sure  how  Salva- 
tore's  confession  had  affected  Christine's  feelings  for  both 
her  brother  and  herself.  She  had  been  silently  sympathetic 
and  charming,  but  love  is  capricious.  For  less  reason  than 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  217 

Christine  had  been  given  to-night  it  takes  wings  and  flies 
off  never  to  return.  Friendship  comes  under  more  reason- 
able, less  sensitive  rule.  In  fact,  we  generally  know  why 
we  like  people ;  why  we  love  them  is  another  matter. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

WHEN  they  reached  their  private  sitting-room  in  the  hotel, 
Zita  and  Christine  threw  themselves  down  in  comfortable 
armchairs.  Neither  of  them  spoke ;  there  was  too  much  to 
say.  Their  minds  both  held  the  same  thought. 

Although  Christine  had  left  her  husband  years  ago  she 
could  not  help  feeling  that  some  of  his  dishonour  clung  to 
'her;  she  still  bore  his  name  and  until  she  was  legally  free 
from  him  he  was  a  hidden  force  in  her  life. 

Zita  was  wondering  if  Christine,  with  her  English  sense 
of  honour,  would  understand  and  forgive  Salvatore's  one 
base  action.  Even  now,  was  she  thinking  differently  of 
him?  Had  his  brave  and  honourable  speech  changed  her 
love  for  him  into  a  friendship  not  untouched  with  pity?  As 
she  looked  at  Christine  she  said  to  herself,  "Well,  at  last 
she  knows !  At  last  Salvatore's  conscience  is  free !  But 
will  she  ever  understand  what  this  evening  has  meant  to 
him?" 

Zita  was  not  left  very  long  in  doubt,  for  Salvatore  him- 
self appeared  before  they  had  spoken  to  each  other.  He 
had  got  rid  of  his  admiring  and  noisy  companions  and  had 
come  straight  to  the  sitting-room,  to  learn  from  Christine's 
eyes  what  her  attitude  towards  him  was  to  be.  Had  his 
speech  killed  the  love  which  he  knew  she  had  felt  for  him 
in  the  morning?  Had  it  taught  her  to  distrust  him? 
Would  he  not  for  ever  now  be  associated  in  her  mind  with 
her  vile  husband?  They  had  been  companions  in  guilt. 

As  he  entered  the  room  Christine  rose  from  her  chair 
and  slipped  out  on  to  the  high  terrace  which  overlooks  the 


218  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

little  farms  and  the  inhabited  districts  on  the  slopes  of  the 
hills.  Zita  would  like  to  be  alone  with  her  brother  for  a 
few  minutes.  Besides,  she  too  wanted  to  see  Salvatore 
alone.  Zita  was  a  dear,  but  she  was  not  Salvatore. 

Christine  stood  with  her  hands  clasped  before  her.  She 
saw  nothing,  nothing  of  one  of  the  fairest  scenes  on  earth. 
She  only  felt  that  Salvatore  was  in  the  room  behind  her,  and 
that  soon,  very  soon,  he  would  come  and  find  her. 

The  shrill  whistling  of  a  million  frogs  did  not  reach  her 
ears ;  the  lonely  cry  of  screech-owls  and  the  barking  of  dis- 
tant dogs  were  not  sounds — they  were  merely  part  and 
parcel  of  Sicily,  the  wild  and  romantic,  Sicily  which  was  so 
intimately  a  part  of  her  life. 

In  the  room  Salvatore  had  grasped  Zita's  hands.  His 
eyes  spoke  to  the  eager  ones  which  were  raised  to  his. 

"She  is  out  there,"  she  whispered,  "waiting  for  you. 
Go  to  her." 

Salvatore  walked  noiselessly  out  to  the  balcony,  but 
Christine  felt  his  coming.  Her  one  desire  was  to  be  ready 
for  him,  ready  to  assure  him  that  if  he  wished  it  she  was 
his,  to  assure  him  that  her  love  of  the  morning  had  become 
her  whole  world.  She  turned  at  his  coming ;  for  one  moment 
their  eyes  questioned  each  other. 

Then  Christine  cried:    "Salvatore,  Salvatore!  ecco  mi!" 

The  words  were  unconsidered.  They  were  an  entreaty; 
he  was  to  come  to  her ;  she  had  been  waiting  for  him.  With 
inviting  arms  she  swam  to  him  through  a  mist  of  unreality ; 
the  material  world  had  dissolved;  they  were  spirits  freed 
from  earthly  restrictions. 

"Primavera,"  he  said  softly,  "Primavera  mia." 

She  was  in  his  arms,  his  breath  was  on  her  face.  Yet  he 
did  not  kiss  her ! 

"Ecco  mi,  Salvatore !"    She  held  her  lips  up  to  his. 

But  he  did  not  take  her  offered  gift.  "You  know  me 
now,"  he  said,  as  he  held  her  more  closely  to  him.  "You 
did  not  believe  that  I  was  a  thief."  He  spoke  breathlessly. 

Christine  released  her  hands  from  his  only  to  throw  her 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  219 

arms  around  his  neck.  "Salvatore  mio,  Salvatore  mio,  I 
love  you!  Oh,  how  I  love  you!"  Her  words  ended  in  a 
happy  sigh.  "I  think  I  never  could  have  loved  you  so  much 
if  you  had  not  kept  the  urns." 

"Cara,  Signora,  and  I  was  so  ashamed,  so  afraid."  As 
their  lips  met  he  said,  "I  was  so  afraid  you  would  think 
that  I  too  had  no  honour,  that  being  dishonest  in  one  thing 
I  should  be  dishonest  in  other  things.  You  had  reason  to 
be  afraid." 

Christine  clung  to  him  reassuringly.  She  raised  her 
eyes  to  his.  "Do  you  know  that  all  that  you  told  the  people 
this  evening  only  proved  to  me  how  much  I  loved  you?  A 
woman  is  a  silly  thing— I  wanted  them  to  know  that  you 
loved  me.  I  wanted  to  call  it  out !  I  wanted  to  say,  'I  love 
him,  I  love  him,  and  your  Salvatore  loves  me.'  It  was  so 
hard  to  sit  still  and  say  nothing.  You  looked  so  pale  and 
anxious,  and  you  only  looked  at  me  once  for  about  a  second. 
But  it  was  a  lovely  second !"  The  laughter  of  an  infinitely 
happy  woman  assured  him. 

"How  can  I  believe  it?  Amor  mio,  donna  mia,  can  life 
be  so  wonderful?"  He  looked  up  to  the  heavens.  "Can 
God  think  me  worthy  of  such  love?  The  stars  are  not  more 
wonderful  than  our  love,  dearest."  He  raised  her  face  to 
the  sky.  "For  ten  years  I  have  waited  for  this  night!  I 
have  dreamed  of  it!  But  no  dream  was  ever  so  sweet  as 
this!"  Their  lips  met  again.  "Tell  me  the  dear  words 
again,  anima  mia,  my  ears  love  the  sound.  Say,  'Salva- 
tore, I  love  you.' ' 

"My  dearest !"  she  said.  "Haven't  you  heard  the  song 
my  heart  has  been  singing?  For  days  and  days  it  has  been 
saying  unceasingly  'I  love  you,  I  love  you,  I  love  you!' 
Salvatore,  it  has  been  singing  that  all  day  long,  but  to- 
night I  know  that  you  are  my  very  life  and  happiness,  I 
belong  to  you !" 

He  folded  her  in  his  arms.  Kisses  rained  upon  her  dear 
lips  and  passion-closed  eyes.  "Ti  do  tutto  quanto  il  mio 
cuore  puo  offrire  in  tenerezze,"  he  murmured,  and  he  said 


220  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

the  words  even  more  tenderly  in  English — "I  love  jour 
little  ear,  let  me  kiss  it,  let  me  talk  to  it  just  in  little 
whispers,  let  me  tell  it  all  the  dear  things  I  have  had  to  say 
to  myself  for  ten  years  while  the  ocean  has  divided  us. 
Your  ear,  Primavera,  is  like  a  shell,  and  in  our  sea-shells 
there  are  songs,  dear  heart,  songs  which  were  sung  into 
them  thousands  of  years  ago  by  syrens  and  dolphins.  My 
love-song  will  live  in  your  ears  when  we  have  ceased  to  be 
mortals."  \ 

Salvatore  said  no  more.  Words  were  banal  with  Chris- 
tine in  his  arms,  so  ungrudgingly  his.  Sicily  surrounded 
them ;  its  unheard  melodies  were  sweeter  far. 

As  the  town  clock  struck  twelve,  Christine's  lips  received 
a  devout  kiss  for  each  stroke. 

"Twelve  vows  went  with  my  kisses,"  Salvatore  said, 
"and  twelve  thanks  to  God  for  you,  beloved."  Suddenly 
he  held  her  from  him.  "Let  me  look  at  you,  anima  mia." 

Christine's  laugh  was  better  to  Salvatore  than  a  caress. 

"Well,  you  are  different  now,  sposa  mia,  quite  different. 
Half-an-hour  ago  I  was  afraid  of  your  eyes,  I  was  a  humble 
supplicant.  Now  you  are  my  heart,  my  eyes,  my  brain. 
We  are  necessary  to  one  another,  we  are  promessi  sposi. 
So  much  can  happen  in  half-an-hour.  When  I  came  to  look 
for  you  I  was  afraid  that  I  should  be  met  with  kindness 
mixed  with  scorn." 

"Oh,  Salvatore,  how  could  you?  If  you  loved  me,  how 
could  you  think  such  a  thing?" 

"Sposa  mia,"  he  spoke  the  words  tenderly,  "love  can 
make  us  afraid  of  almost  anything." 

She  nestled  closer  to  him.  "Yes,  love  can  make  us  be- 
lieve anything,  do  anything.  It  makes  the  bravest  afraid." 

"It  makes  us  brave  or  timid,  confident  or  humble;  it 
makes  us  twist  simple  things  into  mysteries,  and  for  a  man, 
carina,  it  teaches  him  that  there  is  no-one  good  enough  for 
a  pure  and  loving  woman." 

They  stood  silently  together. 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

"When  a  man  gains  the  love  of  a  woman  like  you,  he 
wishes  that  he  had  kept  himself  more  pure  and  worthy  of 
her  gift ;  it  makes  him  ashamed  of  his  nature  in  comparison 
to  hers ;  he  hates  the  memory  of  his  human  frailties." 

Christine  felt  her  first  twinge  of  guilt.  "You  are  more 
than  worthy,  Salvatore."  She  paused.  "Far  more 
worthy.  I  am  .  .  ."  her  words  lost  themselves  in  a 
sudden  physical  weariness. 

He  held   her  more   protectingly.      "No,   no,"   he    said.  \ 
"Never  feel  afraid  any  more." 

"But  you  should  marry  some  innocent  young  girl, 
whose  eyes  have  not  seen  and  whose  ears  have  not  heard 
what  my  eyes  and  ears  have  seen  and  heard."  Christine's 
sense  of  guilt  was  urging  her  to  confession. 

"Mia  amatissima,"  he  said  gravely,  "all  that  is  passed 
for  ever.  Nothing  of  it  has  stained  your  soul;  your  eyes 
are  still  the  eyes  I  loved  when  I  first  saw  you.  They  are 
the  eyes  of  the  pure  in  heart."  He  took  her  two  hands 
and  pressed  them  to  his  breast.  "I  want  you  to  promise, 
beloved,  never  to  think  of  the  past,  never  to  let  it  dim  one 
moment  of  our  happiness,  never  to  speak  of  it.  Never  let 
us  speak  of  him.  You  are  to  be  my  wife,  you  are 
coming  to  me  as  the  girl  Primavera  would  have  come  ten 
years  ago,  if  God  had  not  seen  fit  to  make  us  both  wait  and 
suffer.  Cara  Signora,"  he  said  passionately,  "if  you  only 
knew  the  torture  a  man  endures  when  he  thinks  of  the 
woman  he  loves  receiving  the  caresses  of  another!" 

Christine  was  crying. 

"Anima  mia,"  he  said  penitently,  "you  are  unhappy! 
I  never  meant  to  cause  you  that  anguish!"  As  she  still 
wept  quietly,  he  said,  "What  have  I  done?  What  have  I 
done  ?  Look  at  me,  Primavera  .  .  .  tell  me  what  I  have 
done." 

Christine  was  trembling.  She  shook  her  head.  "Not 
to-night,  Salvatore.  I  will  explain  another  time.  To- 
night I  want  to  take  happiness  to  bed  with  me;  I  want 
only  your  love."  Her  self-control  had  returned ;  she  spoke 


222  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

quietly.  "Let  us  return  to  Zita  and  tell  her."  She  laughed 
happily.  "Zita  never  needs  telling,  does  she?" 

Salvatore  put  his  arm  round  her  waist,  as  they  returned 
to  the  sitting-room. 

"She  has  gone  to  bed,"  Christine  said  as  they  entered 
the  deserted  room.  "Dear  little  Zita!  Wasn't  she  ex- 
quisite to-night?  Didn't  she  sing  beautifully?" 

Salvatore's  free  hand  went  into  his  pocket.  "That  re- 
minds me,"  he  said  gaily,  "I  have  a  note  for  Zita — it  was 
handed  to  me  as  I  left  the  hall." 

"From  some  old  admirer  who  heard  her  sing,  I  suppose?" 

"Probably  he  has  never  seen  her  before  and  now  he  won't 
stop  thinking  about  her  until  he  has  to  take  unto  himself  a 
wife  because  a  man  needs  a  wife  and  ought  to  have  children 
of  his  own — the  Sicilian  temperament,  you  will  say !" 

The  note  went  back  into  his  pocket,  where  it  lay  until 
the  next  occasion  on  which  he  wore  his  evening  clothes. 

As  they  were  saying  good-night,  Christine  said,  with 
grave  eyes,  "I  wonder,  Salvatore  mio,  if  I  shall  ever  be  as 
happy  again  ?  I  am  afraid  to  go  to  bed ;  it  may  break  the 
spell.  To-morrow  always  begins  new  things."  She  held 
out  her  hands;  he  clasped  them  eagerly. 

"Sposa  mia,  try  to  trust  me !  Try  to  forget  my  decep- 
tion and  forgive  me!" 

"I  have  nothing  to  forgive.  You  are  just  the  same 
Salvatore  whom  I  instinctively  trusted.  He  was  just  the 
same  man  whom  I  instinctively  feared  and  distrusted. 
Good-night,  beloved.  Some  day  I  will  tell  you  the  incident 
which  made  me  lose  my  distrust  of  him  and  made  me  be- 
lieve that  I  had  misjudged  him." 

"  No,  no,"  he  said  emphatically.  "Don't  tell  me  any- 
thing. Just  forget  everything.  He  is  dead;  we  are  to 
speak  no  more  of  the  dead.  I  hate  remembering  him, 
Signora  mia."  He  wrung  her  hands,  whilst  his  eyes  wor- 
shipped her.  "Let  me  forget!  Let  me  forget!" 

Christine  was  silent.  She  hated  herself.  She  could  not 
promise  because  she  knew  the  promise  could  not  be  kept. 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

Before  she  could  be  Salvatore'g  wife  she  must  get  her 

divorce.     Very  soon  he  must  be  told  everything;  but  not 

to-night,   not   on  this   wonderful   night.      After  all,  her 
divorce  was  simply  a  matter  of  expense. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  next  morning  was  one  of  Sicily's  fairest  and  gayest. 
It  seemed  a  happy  augury  for  the  lovers,  a  pleasant  ap- 
proval of  Dame  Nature. 

Christine  had  not  yet  joined  Salvatore  and  Zita  at 
breakfast;  her  early  rising  in  Ischia  made  her  appreciate 
the  luxury  of  having  her  prima  colazione  in  her  bedroom 
and  dawdling  down  at  whatever  hour  she  pleased.  She 
was  just  a  little  bit  afraid  to  begin  a  new  day;  she  wished 
to  enjoy  her  happiness  for  a  little  longer  in  a  world  of 
her  own.  In  her  bedroom  she  could  shut  out  everything 
that  spoilt  the  fact  that  Salvatore  loved  her,  that  she 
was  his  promised  wife. 

"He  will  be  telling  Zita,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she 
pressed  the  violets  which  he  had  placed  on  her  breakfast 
to  her  lips.  How  cold  they  were !  How  divinely  fragrant ! 
"And  Zita  will  be  coming  up  to  throw  her  arms  round  my 
neck  and  ask  me  when  we  are  to  be  married !" 

It  was  so  glorious  to  lie  at  rest  in  her  little  bed  in  the 
vast  Sicilian  room,  where  here  and  there  on  the  floor  could 
be  seen  remains  of  Spanish  tiles,  iridescent  and  glowing, 
and  doors  of  elaborate  intarsia  work,  to  remind  her  of  the 
by-gone  splendour  of  the  old  building;  to  lie  and  look 
coldly  at  these  things  while  Salvatore's  love  for  her  glowed 
like  a  great  jewel  in  her  soul. 

Andrea  Zarano  had  never  known  this  new  Christine,  thi.4 
woman  who  had  risen  out  of  the  ashes  of  the  one  whom  he 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

had  tried  to  destroy.  He  had  many  times  said  to  her,  "If 
I  had  married  a  German  woman  she  would  have  become  a 
good  Hausfrau;  if  I  had  married  a  French  woman  she 
would  have  amused  me.  But  you,  you  are  neither  the  one 
nor  the  other.  You  will  soon  discover,  however,  that  your 
frivolous  English  ways  must  cease.  You  have  married 
an  Austrian,  a  far  superior  being  to  any  Englishman,  and 
you  should  be  very  proud  to  wait  upon  him." 

"When  a  woman  bores  a  man,"  he  would  say  brutally, 
"it  is  damnable  to  have  to  live  with 


At  that  moment  Zita  received  a  message  from  the 
padrona  di  casa  to  say  that  a  gentleman  was  in  the  salone 
and  would  like  to  see  her  if  she  could  spare  him  a  few 
minutes.  In  Sicily  no  hour  is  too  early  to  receive  callers. 

Salvatore  had  still  so  much  to  tell  her  that  Zita  left 
him  reluctantly.  She  hurried  along  the  terrace,  where  they 
had  all  their  meals,  and  passed  into  the  hotel.  When  she 
reached  the  salone  she  hesitated  for  a  moment;  for  the 
first  time  she  wondered  who  it  was  who  had  come  to  see 
her. 

She  was  always  daintily  dressed  and  Salvatore's  news 
had  made  her  radiant.  She  entered  the  room  with  smiling 
lips  and  eyes  alight  with  triumph.  Then  she  stopped  sud- 
denly. Something  caught  her  heart;  something  familiar 
and  yet  unfamiliar  was  in  the  room.  She  could  not  see 
who  it  was.  She  could  only  feel,  but  she  was  feeling  so 
acutely  that  she  became  nervous  and  grave. 

Close  to  the  farthest  window  in  the  long  room  a  man 
was  standing,  holding  a  little  boy  by  the  hand,  a  child 
Raphael,  with  appealing  eyes  and  a  fragile  physique. 
Zita's  quick  brain  took  in  the  child  and  the  man  at  a 
glance  —  the  short-comings  of  the  man  as  a  gentleman  and 
his  superb  qualities  as  a  man,  the  child's  unhealthy  beauty. 
Her  soul  shrank  from  her  immediate  summing-up,  for  hid- 
den in  the  man  somewhere  was  the  ghost  of  her  old  lover, 
Sardo  Fontana. 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  225 

The  man  bowed.  "Prego,  Signorina,  have  I  taken  too 
great  a  liberty?  I  heard  you  sing  last  night.  I  could 
not  resist  the  temptation." 

As  he  looked  ardently  at  her,  Zita  became  very  un- 
emotional and  hard.  This  sudden  meeting  with  her  old 
lover  had  robbed  the  story  for  ever  of  its  romance.  It 
was  his  kid  boots  and  ill-chosen  tie  of  the  richest  silk. 
Yet  surely  these  things  were  unessential?  Surely  she  was 
not  such  a  snob  that  these  things  really  mattered? 

"I  am  Sardo  Fontana,"  he  said  gravely.  "Do  you  re- 
member the  day  you  jumped  into  my  cart  from  a  window 
at  Porto  Empedocle?" 

Zita  held  out  her  two  hands.  "Bene,  bene,  and  so  it  is 
you !"  She  clasped  his  hands  eagerly ;  she  was  anxious  to 
be  nice.  It  was  a  simple  matter  for  her  to  be  gracious. 

"When  you  sang  'Caro  nome'  last  night  the  years  rolled 
back.  I  was  a  boy  again ;  you  were  sitting  on  my  cart." 

"The  song  just  came  to  me.  I  have  scarcely  sung  it 
since.  Girgenti  and  the  people  brought  it  back." 

They  looked  at  each  other,  questioningly.  There  was  so 
much  they  wanted  to  know.  While  their  eyes  spoke,  their 
senses  were  taking  in  the  change  which  had  taken  place 
during  the  ten  years.  The  simple  country  girl  had  been 
transformed  into  a  fashionably-dressed  woman  of  the  world. 
With  his  first  glance  Sardo  had  recognized  that  socially 
Zita  was  now  his  superior.  What  he  had  not  done  for 
himself  she  had  done  successfully.  He  did  not  know  that 
in  his  farmer's  homespun  he  had  looked  much  more  nearly 
a,  gentleman  than  he  did  now,  in  Argentine  clothes  imported 
from  Germany. 

"They  tell  me  you  have  not  married,"  he  said  nervously, 
while  his  hands  caressed  his  son's  bright  hair. 

"I  am  an  old  maid,  as  they  say  in  England.  In  America 
girls  do  not  marry  when  they  are  children  and  when  they 
are  women  they  have  such  a  good  time  that  they  don't 
want  to."  She  tried  to  laugh.  "They  have  so  much  free- 
dom." 


226  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

"In  the  United  States,  you  mean — not  in  South  Amer- 
ica." 

"Yes,  in  New  York,  where  I  have  lived  with  my 
brother." 

"In  the  Argentine,  where  I  live,  Signorina,  they  marry 
almost  as  young  as  they  do  here." 

"Of  course  you  are  married,  Signor."  Zita's  eyes  fell 
before  his  steady  gaze.  Somehow  everything  she  said 
seemed  to  her  to  show  a  lack  of  feeling  and  forgetfulness. 
"This  is  your  son?"  She  stooped  down  and  caressed  the 
gentle  child  tenderly. 

"He  is  my  only  child.  His  mother  died  when  he  was 
an  infant." 

Zita's  senses  found  relief,  her  heart  bounded.  "He  mar- 
ried, he  forgot  me !  Why  does  he  assume  the  air  of  always 
having  remembered  and  loved  me?"  But  her  super-senses 
told  her  that  there  was  nothing  assumed  or  insincere  about 
the  man.  Whatever  impression  he  conveyed,  it  was  uncon- 
sidered  and  unintentional. 

"How  beautiful  he  is,"  she  said  gaily ;  "like  a  picture  of 
Raphael  when  he  was  a  little  child."  She  kissed  the  boy's 
soft  hair. 

"Carlito  is  a  good  boy."    He  spoke  with  melancholy. 

"He  is  not  strong?"  Her  eyes  asked  the  question 
anxiously. 

"I  have  brought  him  to  the  old  farm ;  it  is  pure  moun- 
tain air.  I  hope  it  will  brace  him  up." 

When  the  subject  of  the  child's  health  was  exhausted 
Zita  searched  her  mind  for  something  to  say.  It  is  not 
easy  to  break  the  silence  of  memories.  Were  those  memo- 
ries to  be  touched  upon  or  were  they  to  be  ignored?  If 
they  were  to  be  ignored,  there  seemed  nothing  else  to  talk 
about. 

"Your  brother,  the  Cavaliere,  is  he  married,  Signorina? 
He  has  become  a  great  man;  Girgenti  is  very  proud  of 
him." 

"I  have  never   shared   Salvatore  with   anyone."      She 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  227 

smiled.  "But  I  hope  he  will  marry  soon  now."  A  cloud 
passed  over  her  glowing  face.  Must  she  explain  that  he 
was  going  to  marry  the  wife  of  the  man  who  had  behaved 
so  outrageously  to  her  in  Porto  Empedocle,  the  man  but 
for  whom  Sardo  would  have  found  sand  on  her  doorstep? 

But  it  was  all  so  long  ago.  Was  it  wise  to  recall  it?  It 
really  was  such  a  trivial  thing  now,  although  it  had  seemed 
so  important  at  the  time.  Very  likely  he  had  never  thought 
about  her  until  he  had  heard  her  sing  "Caro  nome"  last 
night.  He  had  loved  his  wife  and  probably  still  loved  her 
memory.  For  she  had  given  him  a  son. 

Zita  argued  these  things  with  her  senses,  while  she  knew 
quite  well  that  her  song  had  rekindled  the  fire  of  his  early 
romance  for  herself,  that  in  spite  of  his  marriage  he  had 
never  forgotten  her.  There  was  something  about  him  which 
impressed  her  with  the  fact  that  their  youthful  romance 
had  affected  his  whole  life. 

"You  have  been  happy  in  each  other,  Signorina?"  Sardo 
said.  "Do  you  sing  in  public?  Is  it  your  profession?" 

"Sing  in  public !"  She  laughed.  It  was  the  contagious 
merry  laugh  of  the  girl  who  had  jumped  into  his  cart. 

Hot  blood  rushed  through  Sardo's  veins.  He  had  cher- 
ished that  laugh,  even  as  he  also  had  striven  to  forget  it. 
At  first  he  had  almost  forgotten  it  in  the  duties  of  a  young 
husband  and  a  father  and  in  the  life  of  activity  which  he 
led  in  the  Argentine. 

"Ma  Signorina,  why  do  you  laugh  ?  You  sang  last  night 
as  beautifully  as  any  professional  singer  I  have  ever 
heard!" 

"It  was  just  a  noise,"  she  said  provokingly,  "just  the 
same  noise  as  I  made  when  you  played  the  reed  pipe  in 
your  cart." 

Her  eyes  bewildered  him. 

"Ah,  Signorina,  you  remember?" 

"Per  certo,  I  remember.  Please  sit  down,  Signor  Fon~ 
tana,  for  I  should  like  to  tell  you  something."  Her  eyes 
changed  from  gay  to  grave;  her  smile  faded  into  reflec- 


228  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

tion.  It  was  better  to  plunge  straight  into  the  memories 
which  filled  their  thoughts. 

Sardo  waited  for  her  to  seat  herself  on  an  absurdly  un- 
sociable piece  of  furniture. 

"No,  let  us  try  the  sofa.  It's  not  much  better,  but  this 
stool  of  repentance  makes  conversation  impossible." 

"The  Albergo  is  still  as  it  was  ten  years  ago;  we  can 
forget  the  present." 

Zita's  senses  were  becoming  restive.  Was  she  allowing 
him  to  think  that  she  still  nursed  any  sentiment  for  him? 
As  the  minutes  had  passed  she  had  become  more  and  more 
aware  of  her  inability  to  feel  one  thrill.  She  felt  ashamed. 

"Bene!    Bene!"  he  said.    His  eyes  waited  for  her  story. 

"Prego,  Signor  Fontana,  I  will  tell  you,  but  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  know  how  to  say  what  I  want  to." 

He  smiled.  "I  shall  understand — and,  Signorina,  I 
have  hungered  to  know." 

Zita's  face  flushed  under  his  eyes.  "I  was  too  young  at 
the  time  to  tell  you  what  had  happened  and  afterwards 
.  do  you  remember?" 

"It  was  yesterday!" 

"No,  no,  Signor,  I  am  a  woman  now.  I  am  twenty- 
seven;  in  Sicily  I  should  be  an  elderly  woman." 

"You  were  a  child-woman,  Signorina.  I  called  you 
'Madonnina,'  'Mogliettina'  (little  wife)."  He  said  the 
last  words  almost  inaudibly. 

"I  had  behaved  like  a  child,  Signor  Fontana.  I  went 
with  Count  Zarano  in  his  automobile  to  the  Port.  He  had 
told  me  that  I  should  meet  my  brother  there,  that  Salvatore 
had  told  me  to  come  with  him ;  I  went  because  I  wanted  the 
drive  and  I  believed  that  Salvatore  would  be  there.  Dio 
mio!  How  I  enjoyed  the  drive!  I  remember  every  bit  of 
the  journey."  She  paused.  "When  I  got  to  the  Port,  of 
course  there  was  no  Salvatore.  If  I  had  not  been  such  a 
child,  I  should  have  known." 

Sardo  dared  not  raise  his  eyes  to  Zita's  burning  face. 

"When  we  arrived  at  the  Port  he  took  me  into  an  inn 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

and  offered  me  some  wine  and  fruit.  He  .  .  ."  she 
paused,  and  then  said  hurriedly,  "Need  I  tell  you  that  he 
wanted  to  make  love  to  me?" 

Still  Sardo  did  not  look  at  her. 

"He  made  a  pretence  of  going  to  look  for  Salvatore. 
He  locked  me  in  the  room,  so  I  determined  to  jump  out 
of  the  window.  You  were  passing."  Zita  held  out  her 
hands.  "You  saved  me,  Signer  Fontana,  and  I  have  never 
forgotten  that  drive  and  your  kindness." 

"And  after,  Signorina?  Tell  me.  I  went  happily  and 
confidently  to  your  house ;  there  was  no  sand  on  your  door- 
step." His  eyes  questioned  her.  "I  was  young,  I  was 
mad  with  disappointment.  I  looked  through  your  keyhole 
to  see  if  you  had  returned,  and  I  saw  .  .  ." — he  threw 
back  his  head — "I  saw  Hell,  Signorina." 

"You  looked  through  the  keyhole?  You  .  .  .  you 
.  .  ."  Her  voice  faltered;  she  stared  at  him  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"Yes,  Signorina.  I  hoped  that  you  had  not  returned, 
that  something  had  .  .  ." 

Zita  interrupted  him.  "He  was  with  me ;  he  had  come  to 
take  his  revenge.  I  was  alone  with  him.  Santa  Virgine! 
Why  did  you  not  come  in?  Why  did  you  not  try  to  save 
me  a  second  time?" 

"If  I  had,  Signorina  .  .  .  ?"  Her  eyes  pleaded  for 
an  answer. 

"If  he  had,"  Zita  said  to  herself,  "I  should  now  be  his 
wife!"  It  seemed  impossible  and  yet  it  was  the  truth. 

"Jealousy  turned  my  brain,  Signorina;  I  thought  he 
was  your  lover;  you  were  in  his  arms.  Was  I  to  blame?" 

"Listen,"  Zita  said  earnestly.  "He  was  never  my  lover. 
At  first  his  attentions  and  refined  manners  flattered  and 
pleased  me,  but  when  I  learnt  their  true  meaning  I  hated 
him.  When  you  looked  through  the  keyhole  I  was  terri- 
fied ;  it  did  not  seem  as  if  even  the  Blessed  Virgin  could  save 
me  from  such  a  villain." 

"I  thought  that  you  had  deceived  me,  that  he  was  your 


230  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

lover!  All  these  years  I  have  nursed  that  evil  in  my 
heart." 

"Very  soon  after  that  he  married  the  girl  whom  my 
brother  is  engaged  to  now.  How  strangely  the  moving 
finger  writes!"  Zita's  face  brightened.  "Salvatore  is  a 
Mazzini — he  has  waited!" 

"Your  brother  is  going  to  marry  the  wife  of  Count 
Zarano?"  Sardo's  eyes  expressed  something  more  than 
surprise. 

"Yes.  Why  not?"  Zita  spoke  quickly.  "They  be- 
came engaged  last  night  after  we  left  the  hall.  She  is 
wonderful.  But  her  husband  was  no  Count — everything 
about  him  was  a  lie !  He  was  .  .  ." 

Sardo  interrupted  her.  "You  say  'was,'  Signorina — is 
he  dead?"  He  asked  the  words  hesitatingly;  he  looked 
surprised. 

"She  has  been  a  widow  for  many  years." 

"Ah,  that  is  good."  His  voice  expressed  relief  and 
satisfaction. 

"You  looked  surprised." 

"I  have  been  misinformed,  that  is  all."  He  shook  his 
head.  "It  is  a  mistake." 

"She  promised  to  marry  my  brother  last  night.  Yon 
heard  his  speech?"  Zita's  eyes  looked  proudly  into  her 
companion's  face. 

"A  brave  splendid  speech!  I  know  who  the  villain  was 
who  induced  him  to  keep  the  urns ;  I  understood  the  whole 
story.  But  I  never  until  now  knew  why  you  had,  as  I 
thought,  so  cruelly  deceived  me.  When  I  fled  from  your 
door,  Signorina,  I  determined  to  find  out  all  about  your 
lover.  No,  no,  let  me  speak!  I  know  better  now,  but  I 
was  young  and  I  adored  you ;  every  breath  in  my  body  was 
for  you.  You  were  sacred  to  me,  until  I  saw  you  in  your 
lover's  arms!" 

Zita's  hands  covered  her  face.  The  man  at  her  side  had 
faded  away.  The  youthful  Apollo  with  the  golden-brown 
hair  and  the  laughing  eyes  was  standing  at  her  door  look- 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  231 

ing  for  the  sand;  he  was  kneeling,  with  eyes  straining 
through  the  keyhole;  he  was  cursing  her  in  his  heart  for 
her  treachery.  She  dropped  her  hands  and  looked  at  him 
questioningly.  What  was  the  new  Sardo  really  like?  In 
his  voice  there  was  only  a  thin  note  of  the  old  Sicilian 
youth.  There  was  so  little  in  the  prosperous  merchant 
to  remind  her  of  the  Apollo  who  had  piped  while  she  sang ! 

He  continued  his  story.  "When  I  turned  away  from 
your  door,  Signorina,  I  thought  I  hated  you  and  I  cursed 
the  man;  I  vowed  that  I  would  find  out  all  I  could  about 
him,  that  I  would  kill  him.  I  am  not  a  Mazzini,  Signorina, 
but  I  am  a  Sicilian,  and  I  too  can  wait!"  He  paused,  and 
their  eyes  met.  The  old  longing  for  revenge  had  leapt 
into  life  in  the  man. 

In  the  big  room  the  movement  of  a  fly  could  have  been 
heard,  while  the  girl  sat  with  her  hands  folded  lightly  in 
her  lap.  She  was  thinking  rapidly:  "If  he  had  known, 
what  would  have  happened?  If  he  had  killed  the  Count, 
would  Primavera  ever  have  married  Salvatore?"  If  the 
man  at  her  side  had  come  to  her  aid  a  second  time  this 
story  need  not  have  been  written. 

Zita  raised  her  head.  In  her  heart  she  was  thankful 
that  he  had  not  trusted  her.  "You  were  not  to  blame.  I 
knew  you  found  no  sand,  but  if  I  had  known  that  you  had 
seen  us  together  in  the  cottage,  I  think  I  should  have  died 
of  shame."  She  sighed.  "A  strange  thing  happened — God 
sent  Salvatore  home  early  that  night."  Her  eyes  said  the 
rest. 

Sardo  rose  hastily  from  his  seat.  "And  he  did  not  kill 
him?" 

"There  was  Christine!  Salvatore  had  learnt  that  she 
loved  him.  But  for  that  I  think  he  would  have  killed  him. 
And  I  was  so  afraid  that  he  would  kill  him — or  rather,  try 
to,"  Zita  said  hurriedly,  "for  the  Count  was  a  deadly  shot 
— that  I  never  told  Salvatore  that  'il  Signore,'  as  I  called 
him,  had  driven  me  to  the  Port.  My  brother  thought  that 
that  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  insulted  me."  She  gave 


232  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

a  tired  sigh.  "What  was  the  use  of  telling  him?  What 
good  would  it  have  done?  Salvatore  was  all  I  had  in  the 
world  ...  if  I  had  lost  him?"  She  threw  back  her 
head.  "Salvatore  had  to  think  of  that — there  was  no-one 
to  look  after  me  if  he  were  killed.  I  orfani  had  to  cling 
together." 

"Corpo  di  Bacco!  And  you  say  the  man  is  dead?  I 
am  deprived  of  a  pleasant  business  ?  I  would  have  searched 
the  world  for  him !" 

"Amico  mio,  it  is  all  over  now,"  Zita  said.  "Now  that 
you  understand,  it  is  absolutely  all  over  and  done  with.  I 
have  always  longed  to  let  you  know  that  I  ..."  She 
hesitated,  and  then  went  on  hurriedly.  "Now  all  I  really 
want  is  to  see  Salvatore  happily  married.  'La  Primavera,' 
as  we  call  her,  has  become  quite  Italian,  Italian  enough  to 
understand  an  Italian  husband."  She  smiled  whimsically. 
"But  as  for  that,  Salvatore  is  now  only  half  Italian ;  he  is 
even  less  Sicilian  than  you  are,  Signor  Fontana." 

"He  is  cosmopolitan.  I  have  lived  in  the  Argentine. 
Life  there  is  more  like  life  in  Italy."  He  spoke  sadly.  "I 
orfani  have  become  citizens  of  the  world;  I  am,  as  many 
people  think,  a  good  Sicilian  spoilt." 

"You  are  my  old  friend!"  Zita  spoke  impulsively, 
almost  affectionately,  but  without  passion.  Their  long  and 
intimate  talk  had  made  her  feel  much  more  at  her  ease. 

With  Sardo  it  was  not  so.  He  was  in  love  with  her 
again  and  each  fresh  revelation  of  her  beauty  and  charm  as 
a  woman  made  him  feel  less  at  ease.  The  very  fact  that 
she  could  speak  so  frankly  of  her  girlish  feeling  for  him 
told  him  that  their  meeting  had  not  done  for  her  what  it 
had  done  for  him.  To  a  lover  Friendship  tolls  the  knell 
of  Romance. 

"Prego,   tell   me,    Signorina,    tell    me   this    one   thing 
»» 

"Tell  you  what?"  His  despondent  looks  made  Zita 
flippant. 

"If  the  Count  had  not  been  with  you,  if  he  had  not  come 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  233 

that  evening  .  .  .  ?  You  can  tell  me  that  now,  Sig- 
norina — I  deserve  to  know  the  whole  story." 

Zita's  great  eyes  looked  unflinchingly  into  his.  She  felt 
cruelly  unthrilled  and  critical.  She  had  not  wished  to 
notice  the  all  absurd  little  things  which  proclaimed  the 
man  to  be  her  social  inferior ;  she  despised  herself  for  feel- 
ing and  seeing  them;  they  were  not  the  essentials  about 
the  man — they  merely  showed  that  by  chance  he  had  ab- 
sorbed the  manners  and  customs  of  a  civilisation  which  did 
not  fall  in  with  her  ideas  of  good  form.  He  was  not 
what  the  cultivated  and  intellectual  world  calls  a  gen- 
tleman. 

She  called  herself  a  snob  for  feeling  these  things,  and 
yet  it  was  these  little  things  which  made  it  possible  for 
her  to  return  his  gaze  without  one  quicker  movement 
of  the  heart,  without  one  responsive  throb  of  her  senses. 

"Would  there  have  been  any  sand,  Signorina?"  He 
sighed.  "It  can  do  no  harm  to  tell  me  that  now." 

Still  Zita's  eyes  did  not  flinch  or  her  senses  respond  to 
his,  as  she  said  thoughtfully,  "Of  course,  amico  mio,  there 
would  have  been  sand.  I  was  no  coquette.  You  were  my 
hero.  Why  do  these  things  happen?  Life  is  a  strange 
problem.  Was  it  because  I  was  too  young  to  understand 
that  Providence  intervened?"  She  smiled.  "I  was  very 
ignorant  and  very  romantic.  You  had  a  lucky  escape, 
Signor.  For  three  nights  I  sprinkled  my  doorstep  with 
fresh  sand ;  I  tried  to  persuade  myself  that  something  had 
detained  you,  that  you  would  come  another  night."  She 
shook  her  head.  "Che  sara  sara — we  are  so  helpless." 

"Ah,  Signorina,  if  I  had  only  known!  I  fled  to  the 
Argentine,  and  from  that  day  I  hated  my  own  country. 
It  is  the  destruction  of  ideals  that  kills  youth.  I  believed 
that  all  girls  were  false;  I  tried  to  look  upon  women  as 
.  .  ."  He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Amico  mio!" 

"Love  can  be  pitiless ;  it  can  be  an  agony  to  youth.  It 
was  unkind  to  me;  I  became  a  different  man." 


234  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

"You  have  been  happy,  Signer?"  Zita  caressed  the 
bright  head  of  the  child  at  her  feet.  Carlito  was  playing 
with  a  box  of  delicately-coloured  shells  which  he  had  dis- 
covered in  a  cabinet.  "We  were  both  romantic,  Signor, 
and  very  Sicilian.  Sometimes  I  can  scarcely  believe  that 
I  am  the  same  girl,  that  I  could  ever  have  thought  of 
marrying  a  man  whom  I  had  only  spoken  to  once.  Amer- 
ica has  made  me  more  cautious."  Her  eyes  became 
thoughtful.  "But  there  is  plenty  of  love  there,  Signor, 
if  there  is  not  so  much  romance.  Now,  if  you  had  met 
me  in  New  York,  I  should  have  invited  you  to  my  house." 
Her  eyes  smiled.  "There  is  no  singing  under  balconies,  no 
need  to  throw  sand  on  doorsteps !  Men  and  women  can 
meet  openly  and  become  lovers." 

"Sicily  is  not  progressive,  Signorina.  The  outward 
signs  of  change  mean  very  little;  the  home  lives  of  the 
people  are  just  where  they  were  centuries  ago.  Sicilians 
do  not  change." 

"I  don't  want  them  to  change.     Do  you?" 

"Change,  Signorina,  should  come  from  within.  To  copy 
other  countries  is  a  mistake ;  it  is  not  true  progress ;  it  is 
sacrificing  culture  for  a  parvenu  civilisation.  And  after 
all,"  he  sad  hotly,  "Italy  civilised  Europe;  we  need  not 
begin  to  copy!" 

Zita  had  had  no  idea  how  much  she  herself  had  changed 
until  this  morning.  In  the  old  days  she  would  never  have 
thought  about  all  the  things  which  jarred  upon  her  now. 
She  was  shocked  to  find  herself  coldly  critical  about  the 
smallest  details  of  Sardo's  personality.  Long  ago,  as  a 
well-to-do  Sicilian  farmer,  he  had  seemed  to  her  not  only 
remarkably  handsome,  but  "ben  allevato"  (well-bred). 
She  wondered  if  she  really  was  a  snob.  When  she  ques- 
tioned herself,  she  felt  comforted  with  the  reflection  that  if 
he  had  to-day  jumped  off  his  cart,  in  his  country  clothes, 
she  would  not  have  felt  as  she  did  now ;  she  would  have  felt 
the  difference  between  them  less. 

And  why  on  earth  did  he  dress  his  boy  on  a  warm  summer 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  235 

day  in  an  azure  blue  plush  suit  with  a  Vandyke  collar  of 
imitation  lace?  These  things  were,  she  knew,  trivial,  but 
they  were  idiotically  annoying  to  her  nerves.  And  yet,  as 
she  looked  at  him,  there  was  no  denying  the  fact  that  her 
youthful  Apollo  had  developed  into  a  fine  specimen  of 
manhood. 

The  longer  they  talked  together  the  more  Zita  felt  at 
her  ease,  because  she  saw  all  these  things  very  clearly.  She 
knew  that  nothing  could  ever  revive  the  old  romance.  She 
had  cleared  her  name  and  explained  the  tragedy  to  Sardo, 
but  the  sad  thing  was  how  terribly  little  it  mattered  now. 
Long  ago,  during  her  lonely  and  poverty-stricken  life  in 
Rome,  she  had  longed  to  see  him  again  and  explain  every- 
thing to  him.  Now  that  he  knew  it  seemed  of  ridiculously 
little  account.  How  could  she  have  cared  so  much?  In 
America  she  had  looked  back  upon  the  episode  as  very  old- 
world  and  intensely  Sicilian ;  and  yet  it  always  wounded  her 
sensibilities  when  she  thought  of  how  the  man  who  had 
saved  her  must  have  blamed  and  despised  her. 

With  the  prosperity  of  later  years  her  life  had  been  lived 
quickly  and  fully ;  only  occasionally  she  had  thought  ten- 
derly of  her  broken  idyll,  her  Sicilian  lover.  America  had 
taught  her  that  all  romantic  episodes  need  not  end  in 
marriage. 

Sitting  by  his  side,  she  visualised  herself  as  the  busy 
wife  of  a  Sicilian  farmer.  The  fashionable  world  to  which 
she  now  belonged  would  never  have  existed  for  her ;  Sardo 
would  never  have  gone  to  the  Argentine  if  she  had  sprinkled 
sand  on  her  doorstep. 

As  for  Sardo,  while  she  was  thinking  these  things  and 
saying  conventional  ones,  he  was  asking  himself  how  the 
girl  had  achieved  such  distinction.  No  Sicilian  aristocrat 
had  a  finer  air  of  breeding  or  more  gracious  manners.  In 
the  old  days  he  knew  that  in  offering  Zita  Mazzini  his 
hand  he  was  from  a  material  point  of  view  a  very  good 
match  for  a  poor  girl.  To-day  he  knew  that  she  was 
socially  his  superior.  Sicilians  never  mistake  the  "real 


236  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

thing."  Zita  was  no  mere  copy  of  a  refined  gentlewoman ; 
she  was  one.  He  realised  the  fact  and  it  made  him  des- 
pondent. 

There  was  another  thing  which  angered  him.  The  man 
who  had  robbed  him  of  the  jewel  of  life,  was  dead.  If  only 
he  had  been  alive  he  would  have  found  some  satisfaction 
and  outlet  for  his  feelings  in  killing  him.  By  the  time  he 
rose  to  say  good-bye  he  was  as  much  in  love  with  Zita  as 
he  had  been  when  he  lifted  her  to  the  ground  from  the 
shaft  of  his  cart. 

"Addio,  Signer,"  Zita  said.  "But  it  must  not  be  for 
long — we  shall  soon  meet  again,  and  this  time,"  she  smiled, 
"I  shall  not  be  afraid  to  introduce  you  to  Salvatore.  He 
will  be  delighted  to  meet  you." 

"No,  you  will  not  be  afraid,  Signorina."  He  said  the 
words  regretfully.  "You  will  not  be  afraid." 

Zit-a's  eyes  remained  friendly  and  sincere.  "I  am  glad 
I  sang  the  old  song — old  friends  are  true  friends." 

Sardo's  face  was  grave.  "You  have  many  friends  and 
must  have  much  to  do.  You  have  been  very  unkind  to  spare 
me  so  much  time.  Addio." 

"Per  certo,  I  have  much  to  do,  amico  mio,  but  nothing 
more  pleasant  than  to  talk  to  you." 

"You  are  returning  to  America,  Signorina?" 

Zita  shook  her  head.  "Our  plans  are  uncertain — my 
brother's  marriage  may  change  them.  I  will  let  you 
know."  She  thought  for  a  moment.  "No — please  come 
again  on  Sunday  evening.  I  would  ask  you  to  dine  with 
us,"  she  shrugged  her  shoulders,  "but  you  will  do  better 
at  home."  Their  eyes  met.  Zita  laughed  gaily.  "In  the 
old  days  I  should  have  considered  it  a  great  treat  to  dine 
here.  Ah,  Signor,  how  soon  luxury  spoils  our  appetites! 
Salvatore  says  I  grumble  if  my  coffee  is  not  Mocha.  Do 
you  know,  every  night  our  dinner  here  costs  us  more  than 
we  had  to  live  on  for  a  month  in  Casa  Salvatore!"  She 
laughed.  "Salvatore  is  not  spoilt — he  will  eat  anything 
rather  than  give  trouble." 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  237 

"You  are  not  spoilt,  Signorina,  only  critical.  At  heart 
you  are  just  the  same.  Good  Sicilians  never  change." 

"I  have  a  sense  of  humour,  amico  mio — I  think  that  has 
saved  me.  Without  it  I  might  have  become  very  stuck-up 
and  snobbish ;  I  might  have  tried  to  make  the  dear  people 
here  forget  the  poor  Zita  of  long  ago." 

"You  are  too  clever  and  wise  to  be  spoilt,  Signorina." 

"You  may  call  it  clever,  if  you  like,  Signor,  but  the  truth 
is  that  from  someone,  I  don't  know  from  whom,  I  inherited 
a  fine  bump  of  commonsense  and  a  sane  judgment  of  the 
value  of  things.  My  brother's  promised  wife  is  Scots. 
Ma !  Signor,  the  climate  has  changed  her — she  is  now  more 
Italian  than  I  am."  She  stooped  and  took  Carlito  in  her 
arms.  "He  is  adorable,  Signor  Fontana.  Aren't  you 
very  proud  of  him?" 

Sardo  Fontana's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"Addio,  addio,"  Zita  said  quickly.  His  tears  told  her 
that  the  child's  days  were  numbered.  "Come  on  Sunday 
evening  and  we  will  drink  coffee  on  the  terrazza,  and  I  will 
sing  for  you." 

"Not  'Caro  nome'  this  time,  Signorina." 

"No,  not  'Caro  nome.'  "  She  paused ;  their  eyes  met 
again.  "Amico  mio,  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  sing  'Caro 
nome'  again."  She  did  not  add  what  she  felt  was  the 
truth — that  her  meeting  with  him  had  robbed  it  of  its 
romance. 

Sardo  Fontana  took  his  son  by  the  hand  and  walked  to 
the  door.  As  he  opened  it  he  said  again,  "Addio,  addio, 
Signorina,  e  grazie." 

When  she  was  left  alone,  Zita  stood  looking  out  on  to 
the  terrace,  her  hands  clasped  tightly  together,  her  eyes 
searching  the  distance.  'Twixt  sea  and  hills  stood  temples 
whose  gods  still  frolic  with  the  passions  of  men.  Lying 
out  in  the  sea  was  the  port  where  she  had  first  become  the 
victim  of  their  caprice.  What  further  use  had  they  for 
her,  she  wondered?  Her  thoughts  travelled  to  New  York. 

The  clock  struck  twelve.     "Mezzo  giorno!"  she  said  to 


23S  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

herself.  "Is  it  as  late  as  that?"  Her  hands  fell  to  her 
side,  her  eyes  left  the  distance.  "Poor  Sardo,  poor  man !" 
she  spoke  tenderly.  "Why  did  I  sing  'Caro  nome'  ?  Why 
are  we  made  like  this?  Why  did  I  not  care  one  scrap? 
The  only  thing  I  cared  about  was  that  he  should  not  care. 
My  business  now  must  be  to  show  him  that  it  is  no  use,  that 
every  bit  of  the  old  feeling  is  dead,  completely  dead,  dead 
and  buried."  She  sighed.  In  her  heart  she  knew  quite 
well  that  from  the  first  moment  that  Sardo  had  betrayed 
his  feelings  for  her  she  had  realised  the  depth  of  her  own 
for  the  man  in  New  York  who  was  waiting  for  her.  She 
roused  herself. 

"But  I  must  go  and  see  Primavera.  She  will  be  waiting 
for  my  coming;  she  will  think  me  unkind,  if  she  does  not 
know  that  Sardo  was  here."  She  hurried  to  Christine's 
bedroom. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  moment  she  opened  the  door  Christine  called  out,  "Is 
that  you  at  last,  Zita  mia?  Do  come  in." 

"Yes,  it  is  Zita,  oara  sorella,  cara  sorellina."  She  put 
her  arms  round  Christine.  "It  is  so  nice  to  know  that  you 
are  really  my  sister.  Isn't  it  all  like  a  story-book?" 

"I  have  been  longing  for  you,"  Christine  said.  "But 
what  is  the  matter?  Why  so  grave?" 

"Something  has  happened,  but  I  want  to  speak  to  you 
about  Salvatore."  Zita  became  silent. 

Christine's  nerves  were  instantly  agog.  Had  she  dis- 
covered? 

"What  has  happened  worthy  of  that  grave  face,  you 
tragic  little  Sicilian?"  She  managed  to  speak  flippantly. 

"I  have  seen  Sardo  Fontana — you  know,  the  man  I  once 
should  have  married.  And  now  I  don't  know  how  I  could, 
just  because  he  wears  kid  boots  and  the  wrong  sort  of 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  239 

clothes  and  lets  his  polished  nails  grow  too  long.  Oh, 
Primavera,  I  hate  myself!  I  hate  human  nature!"  The 
girl's  head  went  down  on  Christine's  shoulder. 

Christine  laughed  heartily;  it  was  the  best  thing  she 
could  have  done. 

"Don't  laugh,  Primavera !  It  is  no  laughing  matter — he 
cares,  he  is  in  love  with  me  all  over  again.  .  .  .  You 
know  ...  he  will  suffer!" 

"And  you  don't  care  for  him  because  he  wears  American 
kid  boots,  poor  man !  Zita  mia,  but  you  are  delicious !" 

"I  am  a  worthless  cat.  I  am  not  delicious — how  can  you 
say  so?" 

"You  are  a  very  human  woman.  And  don't  be  tragically 
idiotic !  You  have  changed  and  he  has  not,  that's  all — it's 
perfectly  natural." 

"But  he  has  changed !  That's  just  it.  Long  ago  he  was 
a  simple  Sicilian ;  there  was  nothing  about  his  manner  01 
appearance  which  even  you  would  object  to.  But  now 
.  .  .  well  .  .  .  he  is  simply  neither  one  thing  nor 
the  other — he  is  neither  an  American  gentleman  nor  a 
Sicilian  farmer."  She  paused.  "And  his  little  boy — a 
perfect  angel-child — was  dressed,  poor  little  thing,  in  azure 
blue  plush!  Just  imagine  plush  in  this  weather!" 

"Oh,  he  is  married,  is  he  ?  Then  why  all  this  tragedy  ?" 
Christine  shook  the  serious  girl.  "What  does  it  matter  if 
you  don't  care?  He  got  over  it — as  the  saying  is,  he 
forgot  you  and  took  unto  himself  another  woman." 

"He  is  a  widower." 

"But  he  loved  someone  else." 

"Non  mai,  Primavera.     I  could  feel  that,  I  knew  it." 

"Then  why  did  he  marry  her?" 

Zita  threw  back  'her  head.  "Why  does  half  of  the  world 
marry?  Because  home  life  is  necessary,  because  a  man 
wants  sons,  because  a  woman  wants  someone  to  keep  her — 
ecco,  you  have  it!" 

"Did  he  tell  you  all  that?" 

"No,  no."    Zita  sighed.    "But  let  us  talk  of  your  hap- 


240  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

piness.  You  have  promised  Salvatore?  You  are  to  be  my 
real  sister?  When  can  you  marry  him?" 

Christine  smiled.  "Yes,  I  have  promised.  And  you  are 
glad?  You  really  won't  grudge  me  Salvatore?" 

"It  makes  me  so  happy,  carina.  It  is  just  like  a  beau- 
tiful story-book.  I  was  right.  I  thought  you  loved  him; 
I  did  not  see  why  he  should  have  been  so  afraid  to  tell 
you." 

Christine  interrupted  her.  "He  was  afraid  to  tell  me, 
Zita,  because  it  was  my  husband  who  tempted  him  and  he 
wouldn't  ask  me  to  love  him  until  I  knew  all  about  it." 
She  stopped. 

Zita  grasped  her  hands.  "Ah,"  she  said,  "it  is  such  a 
great  mercy  he  is  dead  and  that  the  good  God  has  been 
his  judge,  for  if  he  were  alive  to-day  Sardo  Fontana 
would  find  him;  he  would  not  rest  until  he  had  killed 
him." 

Christine's  heart  seemed  suddenly  to  fill  her  throat;  an 
awful  blackness  swam  before  her  eyes.  But  she  managed 
to  speak  without  showing  her  emotion.  "But  why  Sardo 
Fontana?"  she  said.  "What  had  he  to  do  with  Andrea?" 
Her  eyes  questioned  the  girl  anxiously. 

"Sardo  suffered  too  through  his  wickedness.  I  never 
meant  to  tell  you — don't  let  us  speak  of  it." 

"Zita,  tell  me,  did  you  ever  love  my  husband?  Did  he 
make  love  to  you?  You  can't  hurt  me — always  there  was 
some  other  woman.  Don't  be  afraid  to  speak." 

Zita  raised  burning  cheeks  and  eyes  to  meet  Christine's. 
"Don't  ask  me,  Primavera.  It  was  all  so  ugly,  so  ordinary. 
Please,  I  would  rather  not  think  of  it.  I  never  need  think 
of  it  again,  now  that  Sardo  knows ;  I  explained  the  whole 
thing  to  him  this  morning." 

"Yes,  I  understand.  But  tell  me,  I  must  know — what 
had  Andrea  to  do  with  your  broken  romance?" 

Zita  bowed  her  head.  "He  had  everything  to  do  with  it. 
When  Sardo  Fontana  came  to  our  house  on  the  evening 
when  I  was  to  give  him  my  answer,  he  saw  me  in  your  hus- 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

band's  arms;  he  had  come  to  our  house.  .  .  ."  Zita 
stopped.  The  words  were  hideous,  the  story  vulgar. 

"Did  you  love  him  ?  Was  he  courting  you  even  while  he 
was  engaged  to  me?  Was  he  false  to  me  even  then?" 

"I  never  loved  him.  I  was  afraid  of  him.  But  he  tried 
to  make  me  love  him ;  I  think  before  he  wanted  you  he  tried 
to  make  me  his  mistress.  But  I  tricked  him  and  outwitted 
him,  and  then  when  I  warned  him  that  I  would  tell  you 
everything,  that  I  would  allow  you  to  judge  what  sort  of 
a  man  he  was,  he  hated  me.  He  longed  to  take  his  revenge. 
Soon  after  that  you  married  him  and  left  the  island." 

"He  was  very  anxious  that  I  should  engage  you  as  my 
maid;  he  often  urged  me  to  suggest  the  idea  to  you." 
Christine's  voice  was  cold  and  even.  ".Tell  me  exactly 
what  happened." 

"He  came  to  our  house  when  Salvatore  was  out,  when  he 
knew  that  I  should  be  alone.  It  was  the  very  hour  that 
Sardo  Fontana  had  appointed.  Some  sand  on  our  doorstep 
was  to  be  my  silent  token  that  I  wished  to  accept  his 
addresses.  If  the  sand  was  there  he  was  to  come  again  to 
see  Salvatore.  Cara  mia,  how  long  ago  it  all  seems !  Poor 
Sardo,  he  saw  no  sand !  He  hoped  that  perhaps  I  had  not 
returned  from  the  farm — he  knew  I  went  there.  He 
thought  I  might  have  been  detained,  so  he  peeped  through 
the  keyhole."  Zita  paused.  How  could  she  tell  the  mis- 
erable truth? 

Christine  laughed  mirthlessly  and  yet  spontaneously. 
"How  Sicilian — peeping  through  the  keyhole !" 

"It  was  only  to  comfort  himself  with  the  assurance  that 
I  was  still  down  at  the  temple  with  my  brother,  that  the 
cottage  was  empty." 

"Well?     Go  on." 

Zita  spoke  in  a  whisper.  "He  saw  me  in  your  husband's 
arms.  And  if  he  were  alive  to-day  Sardo  would  kill  him. 
He  is  still  a  Sicilian." 

Christine  was  silent.  Her  heart  seemed  bursting.  The 
girl's  words  had  suddenly  filled  her  world  with  tragedy.  If 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

she  told  Zita  that  her  husband  was  alive  Sardo  Fontana 
would  hear  of  it.  She  hated  her  husband,  but  she  could  not 
contemplate  his  murder.  Her  firm  determination  of  an 
hour  ago  to  tell  both  Zita  and  Salvatore  that  he  was  alive 
had  suddenly  been  made  impossible.  She  must  take  time 
to  consider  what  was  the  wisest  thing  to  do.  At  present 
the  only  course  was  to  keep  silent. 

Zita  saw  her  agony.  "God  is  good,  sorella  mia.  Sardo 
need  not  kill  anyone."  She  smiled  happily.  "And  perhaps 
you  would  never  have  loved  Salvatore  if  all  this  had  not 
happened.  Dio  mio !  When  I  think  of  it,  of  course  you 
wouldn't!  Socially  we  were  poles  apart.  Cara  mia,  in 
those  days  it  was  'lei,'  not  'voi'  or  the  more  familiar  'tu.' " 

"I  always  thought  of  Salvatore  as  intellectually  my 
superior." 

"I  believe  you,  for  Salvatore  had  an  individuality  which 
even  in  those  days  made  him  different.  When  I  think  back 
upon  it  all,  the  life  we  led  was  quite  refined  and  cultivated, 
even  if  we  were  very  poor."  She  stopped.  "There  is  Sal- 
vatore— listen!  He  is  impatient,  poor  boy.  It  is  almost 
lunch-time." 

In  answer  to  his  knock  at  her  door  Christine  called  out 
"Avanti!" 

Salvatore  entered  the  room  eagerly.  "I  couldn't  wait 
any  longer;  what  have  you  both  been  doing?"  His  arms 
encircled  them  as  he  held  them  both  in  a  tight  embrace. 
"Sposa  mia,  sorella  mia,"  he  said  gaily,  "a  man  can  hold 
his  entire  world  in  his  arms!" 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

WHILE  they  were  at  Girgenti  a  visit  was  to  be  paid  to 
Salvatore's  bottega  at  Licata,  the  ancient  Gela.  Salva- 
tore had  settled  his  bottega  there  because  Licata  lies  at 
the  mouth  of  the  river  Salso.  His  earthenware  pottery 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  243 

required  the  special  earth  or  clay  which  is  brought  down 
by  that  river  in  torrential  seasons. 

•  •••*•• 

The  bottega  had  been  visited.  There  was  such  a 
pleasant  atmosphere  of  enthusiasm  and  refinement  about 
the  small  industry  that  it  carried  Christine's  mind  back  to 
the  accounts  which  she  had  read  of  the  famous  Fontana 
family  and  their  bottega  at  Urbino.  And  surely  no  Castel 
Durante  ware  was  more  beautiful  than  the  Mazzini  ware 
at  Licata?  Every  process  of  the  work  was  interesting, 
from  the  mixing  of  the  earth  or  clay  to  the  painting  of 
the  articles  by  artists  who  were  inspired  with  a  desire  and 
an  ambition  to  turn  out  of  the  bottega  as  fine  work  as  the 
Gubbio  ware  of  the  sixteenth  century. 

Long  ago  Salvatore  had  discovered  that  his  industry 
was  an  expensive  hobby.  He  soon  realised  the  fact  that 
Maestro  Giorgio  could  never  have  produced  the  articles 
of  immortal  beauty  which  he  made  in  his  bottega  at 
Gubbio  but  for  the  wealth  and  encouragement  of  the 
great  Italian  house  which  financed  him. 

When  they  had  inspected  the  bottega  Salvatore  asked 
Zita  if  S'he  would  celebrate  the  occasion  of  their  visit  by 
presenting  his  employees  with  some  memento.  Zita,  who 
was  nothing  if  she  was  not  human  and  understanding, 
said  she  would  if  Salvatore  would  go  and  do  a  little  sight- 
seeing with  Christine.  Dear  as  she  knew  she  was  to  her 
brother,  she  also  knew  that  he  appreciated  her  skilful 
handling  of  chaperonage. 

Salvatore  and  Christine  were  wandering  over  classic 
ground.  When  they  were  tired  they  seated  themselves 
within  sight  of  the  home  of  the  brazen  bull.  They  were 
lovers,  so  their  interest  in  Licata  Majolica  and  the  horrors 
perpetrated  by  Acragas  soon  drifted  into  a  more  personal 
channel. 

Salvatore  spoke  of  their  marriage.  Had  she  decided 
yet  when  it  was  to  be?  Couldn't  they  fix  the  date? 

Christine's  nerves  were  on  fire.     "Dearest,"   she  said, 


244  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

"we  have  only  been  engaged  two  days  and  it  is  so  lovely — 
is  there  any  need  for  hurry?" 

Salvatore's  long  fingers  clasped  her  ankle,  which  had 
restlessly  been  moving  about  while  her  toe  turned  over  the 
white  stones  which  covered  the  ground.  They  were  seated 
on  large  flat  stones  near  the  dry  river  bed. 

"Hurry!  Donna  mia,  do  you  call  ten  years  hurrying?" 
He  spoke  accusingly. 

"It  is  hurried  since.     .     .     ." 

"Since  you  said  you  loved  me?  Well,  go  on — say  it, 
beloved!  The  words  are  more  wonderful  each  time  I  hear 
them!" 

"Well,  since  I  said  I  love  you."  She  smiled.  "Don't 
let's  hurry  over  all  the  niceness  too  quickly.  Each  bit 
of  our  love  is  so  heavenly." 

He  laughed  delightedly.  "You  darling,  are  you  so 
happy?" 

By  way  of  answer  Christine  kissed  his  shoulder  and 
rubbed  her  cheek  against  his  coat,  of  indestructible  Sicilian 
frieze. 

"Dear,  dear  man,"  she  said  as  she  pressed  her  shoulder 
more  closely  to  his,  "you  dearest  thing  in  the  world,  I 
want  to  enjoy  my  engagement  and  my  honeymoon  and 
just  everything!  Don't  let's  hurry."  There  was  a  note 
of  anxiety  and  sadness  in  her  voice.  To  Salvatore  it  sug- 
gested that  to  hasten  their  marriage  might  break  the  spell 
of  their  happiness. 

"You  are  sad,  Christine.  I  hear  apprehension  in  your 
voice.  Precious  woman,  is  it  because  you  are  afraid  to 
be  happy?"  His  eyes  questioned  her. 

"I  don't  know.  If  I'm  sad  it  is  only  because  to  me  hap- 
piness such  as  ours  seems  dangerous.  We  have  reached 
the  point  when  something  must  happen — we  are  only 
mortals." 

"That  is  due  to  nerves,  donna  mia.  You  are  in  need  of 
rest ;  I  must  take  better  care  of  you." 

She  held  up  a  smiling  face  to  his.     "Perhaps  it's  just  a 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  245 

kiss  I  want."  Her  gaiety  was  all  assumed.  "Remember, 
I  haven't  had  one  all  day." 

Salvatore  took  her  face  in  his  two  hands.  When  their 
clinging  lips  parted  they  looked  round  with  a  guilty  air  of 
lovers  who  have  been  stealing  kisses  in  a  public  place. 

"No,  no!  No-one  was  looking!"  Salvatore  said 
boyishly. 

But  he  spoke  -without  having  looked.  Christine  had 
looked  and  she  had  seen  a  figure  suddenly  stoop  to  a 
crouching  position  in  the  river,  which  was  practically  dry. 

"There  is  a  man  in  the  river  bed,"  she  said.  His  crouch- 
ing attitude  preyed  on  her  nerves.  "I  wonder  what  he 
is  doing?  He  seemed  to  be  hiding  for  some  reason  or 
other." 

"I  don't  know  and  I  don't  care,  beloved,  so  long  as  he 
doesn't  come  this  way.  But  tell  me,  diletta  mia,  how 
much  longer  am  I  to  wait?  It's  lovely  being  engaged,  but 
it  will  be  a  thousand  times  lovelier  being  married." 

"Don't  ask  me  to  tell  you  until  we  leave  Sicily !  Don't, 
darling!  Just  let  things  be  as  they  are  until  we  go  back 
to  Ischia."  Christine  raised  pleading  eyes. 

"A  whole  week?"  he  said  woefully. 

"Only  a  week,"  Christine  said  regretfully,  "only  one 
more  week  of  perfect  delight  and  happiness." 

"But  don't  you  want  to  marry  me?" 

"More  than  anything  in  the  world." 

"Then  why  wait  one  hour  more  than  we  need?" 

"Because  we  can  never  be  engaged  again  and  it  is  so 
heavenly.  Being  engaged  is  like  the  feeling  of  spring, 
with  all  its  promise  of  the  summer  before  one." 

"You  darling !"  he  said.  "When  you  put  it  like  that  I 
must  be  content  to  wait.  But  would  you  believe  it  ? — since 
we've  been  engaged  I  seem  to  have  waited  for  years  and 
years." 

"Dear  silly  thing!" 

"Isn't  it  splendid  being  silly,  sposa  mia?" 

Christine's  eyes  did  not  meet  his.     He  felt  that  her 


246  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

thoughts  had  left  him ;  she  was  sitting  like  a  pillar  of  salt 
by  his  side.  He  spoke  to  her  teasingly. 

"Come  back,  Signora.     I'm  jealous  of  your  thoughts." 

Still  Christine  made  no  response. 

He  caught  hold  of  her.  She  was  trembling;  her  face 
was  ashen.  "Donna  mia,  donna  mia,  what  have  I  done?" 
He  rolled  himself  over  on  the  stones  until  he  could  see  her 
averted  face.  "What  have  I  done,  Primavera?  Why  do 
you  look  like  that?" 

When  Christine  tried  to  speak  her  lips  only  trembled; 
she  shook  her  head.  If  only  he  would  leave  her!  If  only 
he  would  go  away!  She  wanted  to  bury  her  face  in  the 
ground  and  cry  until  her  aching  heart  burst;  she  wanted 
to  hide  herself  somewhere,  to  escape,  to  get  away.  But 
Salvatore  did  not  leave  her.  He  held  her  in  his  arms  and 
kissed  her  with  all  the  terrified  tenderness  of  a  lover  who 
easily  exaggerates  anything  that  affects  the  health  of  his 
beloved. 

Christine  struggled  for  self-control.  "Could  you  dip 
my  hankie  in  the  river,  dearest?  It  might  cool  my  head." 

She  offered  him  her  handkerchief.  He  refused  it  and 
took  instead  the  napkin  which  had  covered  their  tea 
things ;  it  would  keep  longer  wet  and  go  better  round  her 
forehead.  Salvatore  was  almost  distracted.  Moisture 
formed  in  drops  on  his  forehead  as  he  dashed  off  to  the 
river  to  do  her  bidding. 

The  moment  Salvatore's  back  was  turned  Christine 
looked  round  with  terrified  eyes.  She  scanned  the  rocky 
ground  in  front  of  her.  The  figure  which  she  had  seen 
crouching  in  the  river  bed  had  crept  closer  to  them.  Now 
it  was  kneeling  behind  a  rock.  She  had  watched  its 
stealthy  movements,  for  almost  from  the  first  she  had 
recognized  the  man.  He  was  her  husband. 

Andrea  Zarano  was  watching  Salvatore!  He  had  of 
course  seen  all  that  had  taken  place  between  them.  Chris- 
tine crouched  to  the  earth.  What  should  she  do?  What 
was  her  husband  going  to  do?  Would  he  follow  Salvatore 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

and  spring  on  him,  or  was  he  just  spying  on  them  for  the 
satisfaction  of  discovering  that  they  were  lovers? 

Salvatore  had  reached  the  little  trickle  of  water  in  the 
wide  river  bed;  he  was  stooping  down  to  wet  the  napkin. 
Her  husband  was  still  watching  him  from  behind  the  rock. 
He  was  twice  as  far  from  Salvatore  as  he  was  from  Chris- 
tine and  there  was  very  rugged  ground  in  between  the  two 
men.  She  was  too  terrified  to  move,  and  yet  she  knew  that 
she  ought  to  do  something  and  that  something  quickly. 

The  instant  Salvatore  turned  his  back  on  the  river  with 
the  wet  cloth  in  his  hand,  her  husband  left  his  hiding-place. 
He  was  stealthily  picking  his  way  over  the  loose  stones  to 
where  she  was  sitting.  Her  heart  stood  still ;  fear  paralysed 
her.  The  two  men  must  meet.  Nothing  she  could  do  could 
prevent  that  now.  Probably  her  husband  was  armed  and 
well  prepared  for  the  meeting.  He  must  have  followed 
them  from  Licata. 

Salvatore  waved  his  hand  to  Christine.  In  his  anxiety 
he  paid  no  attention  to  the  man  who  was  ahead  of  him.  As 
the  man  quickened  his  pace,  however,  and  drew  closer  to 
Christine  he  became  annoyed.  Then,  to  his  surprise  and 
horror,  he  saw  him  lay  his  hand  on  Christine  and  Christine's 
head  go  down  to  the  ground.  With  her  hands  she  was 
digging  amongst  the  stones  like  an  animal  seeking  covert. 

Mad  with  rage,  Salvatore  leapt  forward.  He  was  at  her 
side  in  a  moment.  Christine's  obvious  terror  had  brought  a 
yell  of  rage  from  him  like  the  roar  of  a  bull. 

"Take  your  hands  off !"  he  shouted.  "If  you  don't  I'll 
kiU  you !" 

Christine  made  no  movement.  She  dared  not  face  the 
meeting  of  the  two  men.  She  knew  that  at  any  minute 
Salvatore  must  recognize  her  husband.  Still  grovelling  in 
the  loose  stones  she  crouched  closer  to  the  ground.  She 
could  not  and  would  not  see  what  she  knew  must  happen. 
The  desolate  world  was  waiting  for  death — it  was  coming. 

For  a  moment  the  world  was  still  silent;  its  desolation 
fed  no  living  thing.  Then  suddenly  a  horrible  choking 


248  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

gasp,  a  throat-gurgle  and  the  hard  crunching  of  feet  on 
the  loose  stones,  made  her  spring  to  her  feet.  The  sound 
was  ominous,  but  not  what  she  had  expected.  No  revolver 
shot  had  rung  out  in  the  clear  air. 

What  she  saw  when  she  raised  her  head  was  her  husband 
with  the  wet  napkin  which  was  to  have  eased  her  head 
twisted  tightly  round  his  throat.  Salvatore  was  twisting 
it  tighter  and  tighter,  while  his  victim's  face  was  getting 
redder  and  redder. 

Andrea  Zarano  had  paid  no  attention  to  Salvatore's  roar 
of  anger,  so  the  throttling  was  swift  and  effectual.  From 
behind  the  napkin  had  gone  over  his  head  with  the  quick- 
ness and  sureness  of  Salvatore's  unerring  eye  and  hands. 
The  Count  had  no  time  to  even  attempt  to  free  himself. 

His  face  was  quickly  turning  from  deep  red  to  a  dull 
purple  and  his  eyes  seemed  to  be  bursting  out  of  their 
sockets.  The  sight  was  so  horrible  that  it  brought  a  cry 
from  Christine's  lips. 

"Salvatore!  Salvatore!  Leave  him!  You  are  killing 
him !  For  heaven's  sake  let  go  the  napkin !  Oh  God !"  she 
said.  "How  horrible !" 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  Salvatore  looked  suspiciously 
at  her.  His  habitually  gentle  expression  had  changed  to 
one  of  vengeance  and  cruelty. 

Christine  gazed  at  him  in  terror.  He  was  quite  capable 
in  his  present  state  of  killing  the  man  who  was  so  com- 
pletely in  his  power.  The  Count  had  ruined  her  young  life 
and  he  was  going  to  ruin  it  again,  but  his  staring  eyes, 
which  looked  as  if  blood  might  at  any  moment  spurt  from 
them,  sickened  her. 

Not  a  word  had  been  spoken  until  Christine's  cry  tore 
through  the  air.  The  tragedy  had  been  enacted  in  silence. 
It  was  tense,  dramatic  and  typically  Sicilian.  Salvatore 
had  only  recognised  the  Count  as  the  noose  went  round  his 
neck. 

Christine's  cry  had  not  made  him  loosen  the  napkin. 
Indeed,  since  he  had  looked  at  her,  he  seemed  more  deter- 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  249 

mined  than  ever  to  kill  the  man.  She  sprang  to  his  side 
and  tried  to  catch  hold  of  his  hands,  but  Salvatore  was  too 
quick  for  her. 

"He  is  better  dead !    Leave  him  to  me." 

"No,  no!  Don't  kill  him !"  she  shrieked.  "Look!  look! 
His  face  is  almost  black !  Oh,  Salvatore,  leave  him !  For 
my  sake,  don't  kill  him !  He  is  my  husband." 

Instantly  Salvatore's  grip  slackened.  He  allowed  the 
man  a  little  mercy.  As  he  slackened  the  napkin  his  eyes 
sought  Christine's.  In  them  she  saw  a  new  agony. 

"If  I  let  him  go,  it  is  because  you  love  him."  As  he 
spoke,  his  fingers  twisted  the  napkin  back  again  into  the 
old  creases. 

Christine  felt  as  if  she  were  going  mad.  In  the  blinding 
sunlight  against  a  background  of  white  stones  the  two  men 
were  hideously  distinct,  though  both  of  their  faces  were 
scarcely  recognisable.  If  she  did  not  tell  Salvatore  that 
she  loved  her  husband,  he  would  kill  him.  Salvatore  would 
be  a  murderer.  Often  she  had  wished  Andrea  dead,  and 
never  oftener  than  within  the  last  few  days,  but  Salvatore 
must  not  kill  him.  She  could  never  marry  the  man  who 
had  killed  him. 

Salvatore  waited  for  her  answer.  The  only  sound  was 
the  crunching  of  the  men's  feet  on  the  stones.  Water  was 
beginning  to  ooze  up  and  wet  the  snow-white  gravel  and 
sand.  The  Count  had  no  breath  left  for  groans. 

As  Salvatore  spoke  his  eyes  lashed  her  with  scorn.  "If 
you  love  him,"  he  said,  "if  you  ask  me  for  his  life,  it  is 
yours,  I  will  give  it  to  you." 

"Answer  me,"  he  said.  His  eyes  seemed  to  have  forgot- 
ten his  love  for  her.  He  was  no  longer  the  Salvatore  who 
had  caressed  her  a  few  moments  before.  "Do  you  love 
him?"  he  repeated  harshly. 

"Yes,  I  love  him,"  she  said  firmly.  "Give  me  his 
life." 

A  roar  of  human  agony  went  up  to  the  cloudless  sky. 
The  Count  was  free  and  Salvatore  Mazzini  was  rushing 


250  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

wildly  and  heedlessly  from  the  man  and  woman,  who  were 
left  alone  on  an  ocean  of  white  stones. 

As  Salvatore's  cry  filled  the  desolate  landscape,  it  told 
Christine  what  her  words  had  done  to  him.  They  had  com- 
mitted murder.  They  had  done  a  far  more  cruel  deed  than 
the  killing  of  a  worthless  man.  It  was  the  cry  of  a  hope- 
less soul  that  had  gone  out  into  the  wilderness. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

WHEN  Andrea  Zarano  recovered  from  the  effects  of  Salva- 
tore's throttling,  with  some  assumption  of  the  old  playful- 
ness which  he  had  adopted  towards  Christine  in  the  first 
days  of  their  married  life,  he  said  to  her : 

"So  my  wife  still  loves  me,  she  is  glad  to  return  to  her 
Andrea !" 

He  saw  Christine  shrink  from  him;  every  nerve  in  her 
body  was  strung  to  a  cruel  pitch  of  agony.  Why  had 
Salvatore  deserted  her?  Why  had  he  not  known  that  she 
had  only  said  that  she  loved  her  husband  to  save  him  from 
murder  ? 

''Your  lover  has  left  you,"  the  man  said.  "He  won't 
return." 

As  he  spoke  he  came  closer  to  Christine  and  held  out  his 
hands. 

"So  my  little  Christine  is  coming  back  to  her  husband, 
her  Andrea,  who  was  always  willing  to  forgive  her?"  He 
tried  to  embrace  her.  She  was  the  beautiful  woman  he  had 
imagined  matrimony  would  make  her. 

"Don't  touch  me!"  Christine  said.  "Don't  ever  dare  to 
touch  me !" 

"But  you  love  me — what's  the  matter?"  He  laughed 
cynically. 

"You  know  I  hate  you !  I  would  rather  kill  myself  than 
go  back  to  you !  Keep  your  hands  off !" 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  251 

"Was  that  your  sly  way  of  getting  rid  of  him,  your 
parvenu  lover?  Are  you  tired  of  him?  May  I  know  his 
rival?  This  is  very  amusing." 

"Oh,  you  beast  and  coward,  can't  you  even  be  grateful? 
To  save  yours,  I  have  spoilt  my  life.  I  saved  you  and  yet 
you  dare  to  speak  to  me  like  that !" 

"Why  did  you  do  it?"  he  said  softly.  The  voice  was 
gentle. 

Christine  was  superb  in  her  anger;  she  was  well  worth 
wooing  all  over  again. 

"Why  did  you  ask  for  my  life  if  you  did  not  want  me  ?" 
he  asked  with  well-assumed  sincerity.  "Come,  let  us  for- 
get, let  us  begin  all  over  again.  I  will  forgive  your  infi- 
delity because  I  want  you.  I  have  always  wanted  you." 
He  held  out  his  arms.  "Fill  them,  sposa  mia,  and  be  a 
loving  and  forgiving  little  wife." 

Christine  sprang  from  him.  She  knew  every  phase  of 
the  man's  character.  "I  begged  for  your  life,"  she  said, 
"because  I  love  Salvatore.  If  anyone  else  would  kill  you  I 
should  thank  God !  I  would  kill  you  myself  if  it  would  not 
kill  him  too." 

"Pretty  spitfire!"  he  said  mockingly.  "You  have  more 
passion  in  your  little  finger  than  the  old  Christine  had  in 
her  whole  body.  Now  you  are  worth  a  man's  fidelity." 
He  moved  closer  to  her.  "You  must  give  me  what  you 
never  gave  me  before  and  we  will  be  lovers  again." 

Christine  looked  all  round.  She  was  terrified.  The  place 
was  utterly  deserted.  She  must  get  back  to  Licata,  she 
must  somehow  get  away  from  him.  She  knew  only  too  well 
what  he  was  like  when  his  passions  were  roused,  when  a 
woman  was  desirable  in  his  eyes. 

The  tragedy  had  been  enacted  in  less  than  a  quarter  of 
an  hour,  but  already  it  had  distanced  her  by  years  from 
Salvatore,  whose  devotion  comprised  her  world.  Now, 
although  the  napkin  which  he  had  dipped  in  the  river  was 
not  yet  dry,  he  was  infinitely  far  away ;  he  was  rushing 
blindly  and  madly  through  Hades.  He  had  left  her  to  go 


252  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

with  her  husband,  whose  neck  was  still  scarred  with  the 
marks  of  his  strangling. 

These  thoughts  rushed  wildly  through  her  mind  as  she 
turned  to  the  man  at  her  side,  whose  impertinent  demands 
maddened  her.  But  she  must  ignore  his  requests.  It  did 
her  credit  that  she  was  able  to  say  with  perfect  self- 
composure  : 

"You  know  what  a  Sicilian  is  capable  of  doing  to  avenge 
his  sister's  honour  and  to  save  the  woman  he  loves.  If  I 
had  not  lied  to  Salvatore  and  told  him  that  I  still  loved  you, 
he  would  have  killed  you — is  that  not  perfectly  true?" 

"Your  lover  was  always  a  primitive  where  a  woman  came 
into  the  question ;  he  is  little  better  than  a  savage.  What 
can  you  expect?" 

"Never  mind  what  he  is,"  Christine  said  quietly.  "He 
would  have  killed  you,  and  according  to  his  Sicilian  code  of 
honour  he  would  have  been  justified.  It  would  not  have 
been  murder.  By  lying  to  him  and  breaking  his  heart,  I 
have  saved  your  life.  Now  I  ask  you,  for  once  be  fair  to 
me.  Will  you  do  one  deed  for  which  I  can  thank  you  ?" 

He  bowed  mockingly.  "I  am  only  a  poor  archaeologist — 
my  work  is  at  Licata.  I  cannot  help  you  financially — I  am 
no  millionaire." 

Christine  kept  her  temper.  "Will  you  let  me  return  alone 
to  Licata?  You  have  robbed  me  of  my  lover" — she  used 
the  word  deliberately.  "I  am  absolutely  penniless.  To 
force  me  to  come  back  to  you  would  be  madness." 

He  looked  at  her  plain  gown  and  her  un jewelled  hands. 
"Your  lover  has  not  spent  many  of  his  American  dollars 
on  his  mistress ;  as  my  wife  you  were  better  dressed." 

Christine's  face  burned  and  her  eyes  blazed,  but  she  held 
her  tongue;  it  was  worth  while.  "I  have  never  willingly 
harmed  you  and  to-day  I  have  saved  your  life.  Will  you 
let  me  go?" 

The  Count  was  silent.  The  woman  was  very  desirable ; 
she  was  his  wife.  But  he  realised  that  if  she  shrank  from 
him  it  would  be  the  old  story  over  again.  He  had  no  wish 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  253 

to  support  a  grudging  woman.  The  woman  with  whom  he 
was  living  at  present  was  rich  and  goodnatured.  She  was 
ignorant,  but  she  had  tact  enough  not  to  bore  him,  and  her 
Levantine  type  of  beauty  had  not  yet  developed  into  gross- 
ness.  He  of  course  never  doubted  that  Christine  was  living 
with  Salvatore.  It  was  her  passion  for  him  which  had 
beautified  her  and  made  her  what  he  himself  had  failed  to 
make  of  her.  It  gave  him  a  keen  satisfaction  to  know  that 
he  had  separated  them. 

"As  I  have  no  wish  to  live  with  a  reluctant  wife,"  he  said 
lightly,  "I  will  let  you  return  to  Licata.  Without  your 
lover  what  will  you  do  there?"  He  smiled  sardonically. 
"You  should  have  been  a  better  business  woman,  Christine ; 
you  should  have  insisted  upon  a  settlement.  Your  looks 
justified  it,  and  the  'paint'  millionaire  can  well  afford  to  be 
more  sporting." 

Christine  bit  her  lip.  She  could  have  killed  the  man  for 
his  insolence. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said.    "I  am  really  grateful." 

Indeed,  the  sudden  relief  which  his  words  gave  brought  a 
look  of  almost  kindliness  into  her  eyes.  She  was  totally 
unprepared  for  it,  because  she  knew  that  a  part  of  Andrea 
Zarano's  complex  nature  was  his  lust  for  mental  torture. 
He  had  practised  it  upon  her  with  almost  fatal  results  in 
the  old  days.  Her  softer  expression  was  not  unnoticed. 

"Sposa  mia,"  he  said  sentimentally,  "do  you  realise  that 
I  am  doing  a  generous  action?  You  have  grown  into  a 
very  lovely  woman." 

His  words  struck  fresh  terror  into  her  heart.  Was  he 
only  letting  her  go  for  the  pleasure  of  trapping  her  and 
recapturing  her? 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said  hurriedly.  "You  will  never 
regret  it."  Her  voice  was  formal ;  her  eyes  had  lost  their 
gentleness.  But  he  must  not  know  the  terror  she  was  en- 
during. Again  she  said,  "Thank  you,  Andrea.  Good-bye." 

"Good-bye,  sposa  mia,"  he  said  mockingly.  "This  has 
been  a  strange  meeting."  He  put  his  hand  to  his  throat. 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

"Take  care  of  yourself — that  wild  cat  lover  of  yours 
might  become  a  dangerous  bedfellow." 

To  Christine's  great  surprise  he  left  her  abruptly.  As 
she  stood  watching  him  pick  his  way  over  the  rough  stones 
and  shelving  gravel,  she  realised  that  he  was  not  so  agile 
as  he  had  been  when  she  had  watched  him  carry  the 
wounded  kid  away  to  the  farm.  Long  ago  he  had  been 
almost  as  light  of  foot  as  Sal va tore;  to-day  he  had  to  look 
where  he  placed  his  feet ;  he  took  fewer  risks. 

She  watched  him  with  anxious  eyes.  He  was  walking  in 
the  opposite  direction  to  the  town.  He  was  going,  though 
Christine  did  not  know  it,  to  the  small  house  which  had 
been  built  for  him  to  be  near  the  site  of  some  new  excava- 
tions. He  had  returned  to  Sicily  after  a  very  long  absence 
to  work  again  for  the  Italian  Government.  In  Sicily  he 
was  pretty  well  his  own  master  and  under  less  vigilant  eyes 
than  he  had  been  in  Crete  or  Egypt,  which  in  more  senses 
than  one  had  become  too  warm  for  him.  It  had  suited  him 
to  return  to  the  island  and  accept  the  post  which  was 
offered  him  at  Licata. 

His  struggle  with  Salvatore  had  exhausted  him.  It  had 
not  been  without  an  effort  of  self-control  that  he  had 
managed  to  talk  to  Christine  and  treat  the  matter  lightly. 
It  was,  indeed,  due  to  his  physical  exhaustion  that  he  had 
consented  to  Christine's  request.  He  never  once  looked 
back.  As  soon  a.s  he  was  out  of  sight  he  wanted  to  lie 
down  and  rest ;  only  his  vanity  had  saved  him  from  a  total 
collapse. 

The  whole  thing  had  been  so  sudden.  It  had  come  out  of 
the  stillness  with  the  rush  of  a  typhoon.  The  horror  of  it 
had  raged  and  threatened  and  terrorised;  death  had  been 
before  her  eyes  and  then  as  suddenly  it  had  ceased.  In  less 
than  half-an-hour  she  was  alone  in  the  blinding  sunshine, 
alone  with  nothing  but  white  stones  and  the  scattered  con- 
tents of  Zita's  tea-basket  before  her  eyes.  Was  ever  a 
scene  more  desolate  or  further  removed  from  human  pas- 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  255 

sion?  The  sea  which  lay  far  beyond  the  field  of  white 
stones  looked  almost  purple.  Here  and  there  the  twisted 
and  bind-blown  trunks  of  ancient  olvie-trees  broke  the  flat- 
ness of  the  landscape.  Some  of  them  looked  like  the  petri- 
fied torsos  of  a  prehistoric  people. 

Christine  gave  an  ugly  laugh  when  she  found  herself 
packing  up  the  tea-basket.  How  could  such  things  mat- 
ter? What  was  she  doing  it  for?  Where  was  she  going? 

It  is  the  doing  of  conventional  things  which  saves  the 
human  brain  in  such  moments  of  agony.  She  not  only 
packed  the  basket  in  an  orderly  and  precise  manner,  but 
she  shook  out  the  twisted  napkin  three  or  four  times  and 
laid  it  on  the  flat  stones  to  press  out  the  creases ;  then  she 
shook  it  out  again.  Would  nothing  rid  it  of  its  ugly  sug- 
gestion? The  fierce  sun  had  dried  it;  the  curled  creases 
seemed  indelible.  Some  hairs  from  Andrea's  neck  still  stuck 
to  it.  When  she  left  it  alone  it  curled  back  again  to  the 
size  of  his  throat.  Would  the  sight  of  it  ever  leave  her 


memory 


When  the  basket  was  packed  she  walked  blindly  and  in- 
stinctively towards  Licata.  Her  subconscious  self  guided 
her.  It  had  determined  to  see  Salvatore  and  to  explain  the 
whole  thing  to  him.  Her  conscious  self  was  incapable  of 
definite  thought  or  of  any  fixed  plan. 

She  was  covering  the  same  ground  as  she  had  dawdled 
over  an  hour  ago  with  Salvatore. 

Once  in  Licata  she  went  straight  to  the  appointed  meet- 
ing-place with  Zita.  But  no  Zita  was  to  be  seen.  Christine 
looked  up  and  down  the  street.  Their  motor  was  not  in 
sight,  nor  was  there  any  trace  of  the  brother  and  sister. 
Had  they  both  deserted  her?  Did  Salvatore  really  believe 
that  she  was  in  love  with  her  husband?  His  love,  which 
had  been  her  anchor,  would  surely  have  returned  when  his 
anger  and  jealousy  had  abated? 

A  waiter  from  a  Locanda  which  was  close  to  the  church 
which  was  to  have  been  their  meeting-place,  addressed  her. 

"Prego,  Signora,"  he  said,  as  he  handed  her  a  visiting- 


256  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

card,  "I  was  to  give  you  this."  It  was  Zita's  visiting-card. 
"The  Signorina  is  in  the  hotel.  She  is  waiting  for  you, 
Signora." 

Christine  followed  the  man,  who  took  her  into  a  preten- 
tious little  sitting-room,  very  full  of  uncomfortable  furni- 
ture and  cheap  ornaments.  Her  super-senses  noted  the 
incongruity  of  Zita's  surroundings.  Her  classical  beauty 
gave  them  an  added  hideousness. 

Zita  did  not  raise  her  face  as  Christine  entered  the  room, 
nor  had  she  made  any  response  to  the  waiter's  announce- 
ment: "Ecco,  Signorina,  1'ho  trovato." 

Christine  waited  for  the  man  to  leave  the  room  and  then 
fell  on  her  knees  beside  the  figure  of  Melancholy  which  Zita 
presented. 

"I  have  come  to  explain,  Zita.  Sorella  mia,  let  me  ex- 
plain everything." 

Zita  only  pressed  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 

"Look  at  me,  Zita!  Speak  to  me!  Don't  you  know 
that  I  am  nearly  mad?"  She  pulled  the  girl's  hands  from 
her  eyes. 

"You  have  killed  Salvatore,"  Zita  said.  Her  voice  was 
lifeless.  It  struck  an  agony  of  remorse  into  Christine's 
heart.  "He  will  die — this  is  more  than  he  can  bear." 

"But  I  can  explain  everything — I  didn't  mean  to  de- 
ceive either  of  you.  It  isn't  such  a  serious  thing  as  you 
think.  Oh,  Zita,  if  Salvatore  had  killed  him  ...  !" 
Christine's  head  went  down  on  Zita's  lap. 

"Salvatore  was  honest  with  you.  He  had  to  tell  you 
everything,  even  his  one  dishonest  deed." 

"How  much  has  Salvatore  told  you,  Zita?  Do  you  know 
all  that  happened?  Where  is  Salvatore?" 

"I  only  know  that  your  husband  is  alive — that  is  enough. 
Oh,  why  did  you  not  tell  him?" 

"I  tried  to  tell  him,  Zita,  this  very  afternoon  I  tried,  and 
also  on  the  night  we  became  engaged.  I  never  meant  to 
deceive  him.  I  loved  him  so  dearly  that  I  just  put  off  tell- 
ing him  from  day  to  day — we  haven't  been  long  engaged." 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  257 

"Engaged!"  Zita  laughed.  "How  could  you  be 
engaged  when  you  knew  you  couldn't  marry?" 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean?  Of  course  we  can  marry. 
I  only  hid  the  fact  that  I  must  divorce  my  husband  because 
I  wanted  a  few  more  days  of  perfect  bliss,  a  few  more 
days  before  anything  unpleasant  had  to  be  discussed." 

Zita  looked  into  Christine's  eyes.  "Divorce,  Primavera? 
You  know  my  brother  is  a  good  Catholic?" 

Christine  tightened  her  grasp  on  the  girl's  arm.  Her 
terrified  eyes  frightened  Zita. 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  Salvatore  thinks  I  can 
never  marry  him  while  my  husband  is  alive?  That  he 
doesn't  believe  in  divorce?" 

"Salvatore  will  be  here  very  shortly;  he  must  tell  you 
himself."  The  tone  of  zita's  voice  was  final. 

"But  you,  Zita — surely  you  don't  think  that  we  must 
ruin  our  lives,  that  I  must  give  up  Salvatore?  That  I  am 
to  be  punished  and  my  husband  go  free?  That  my  hideous 
marriage  was  a  holy  sacrament?" 

"I  don't  think,  Signora.  I  just  know  that  while  you  are 
one  man's  wife  you  cannot  be  another's." 

"Then  you  are  mad,"  Christine  said,  "or  rather,  hope- 
lessly ignorant  of  how  unholy  some  marriages  can  be.  I 
can  divorce  Andrea  any  day." 

"And  you  thought  Salvatore  would  marry  you  ?" 

"When  I  am  free,  he  will  marry  me.    He    .    .    ." 

Zita's  voice  stopped  her.  "When  you  are  free?  Poor 
Salvatore !  My  poor  brother !  Ah,  Signora,  it  was  cruel, 
cruel!  How  could  you  do  it?" 

"He  wouldn't  listen  to  anything  about  my  husband  and 
I  ...  Oh,  Zita,  can't  you  understand,  after  all  these 
years  of  suffering,  how  precious  his  love  was  ?  I  never  for 
one  moment  imagined  that  he  would  think  like  that  about 
divorce — it  is  so  unlike  either  of  you." 

"But,  Primavera,  you  know  that  Salvatore  is  a  religious 
man !  He  is  far  more  religious  than  I  am." 

"It  is  not  a  question  of  being  religious.     The  Church 


258  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

made  these  laws ;  they  have  nothing  to  do  with  our  belief  in 
God  or  trying  to  be  Christ-like  in  our  lives.  The  civil  law 
of  the  State  allows  us  to  marry  again;  it  is  a  Christian 
State." 

"As  members  of  the  Catholic  Church  we  do  not  question, 
we  obey."  Zita  spoke  in  a  lifeless  yet  definite  way.  With 
a.  Catholic  the  question  of  divorce  was  beyond  dispute. 

"You  are  both  so  modern,  so  intelligent;  you  have 
thought  for  yourselves  in  other  matters.  You  know  quite 
well  that  Sicilians  ignore  the  laws  of  their  country  when 
they  do  not  approve  of  them ;  any  Italian  only  keeps  those 
that  he  thinks  are  good  and  wise.  Why  should  the  same 
men  be  so  law-abiding  to  the  Church?" 

"When  laws  are  passed  by  parliament,  by  men  who  have 
only  their  own  interests  at  heart  and  not  their  country's 
good,  Signora,  no  independent  Italian  dreams  of  keeping 
them.  What  would  their  country  eventually  become  if  they 
did?  But  laws  made  by  God — they  are  different,  Signora." 

"Laws  made  by  the  Church,  you  mean,  the  early  Fathers 
of  the  Church,  who  were  just  as  much  party  people  and 
quite  as  self-interested  as  any  modern  politician  !  The  only 
difference  was  that  their  aim  was  church  glorification." 

Christine  put  her  arms  round  the  unresponsive  girl.  She 
must  make  her  see  reason. 

"Has  Salvatore  told  you  nothing  beyond  the  fact  that 
he  saw  my  husband?" 

Zita  shook  her  head.  "He  was  too  overcome.  He  could 
not  speak  to  me ;  he  couldn't  tell  me." 

"Then  listen,  Zita.  Salvatore  would  have  killed  Andrea 
if  I  had  not  saved  him.  He  was  choking  him  with  a  wet 
napkin;  he  threw  it  over  his  head  from  behind.  Andrea 
was  helpless.  I  saw  murder  in  Salvatore's  eyes.  At  the 
time  I  could  only  think  of  one  thing — if  he  killed  Andrea  I 
could  not  marry  him."  Christine  paused.  The  girls  were 
staring  at  each  other  wildly.  In  Christine's  eyes  there  was 
the  horror  of  the  scene  which  she  had  witnessed.  "Listen, 
Zita.  Andrea  was  almost  at  his  last  gasp  when  Salvatore 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  259 

heard  my  wild  screams.  He  looked  at  me  and  said,  'If  I 
spare  his  life  it  is  because  you  love  him.  .  .  .  Tell  me, 
do  you  love  him?' ' 

Zita  was  trembling.  "Poor  Primavera!"  she  said 
weakly.  "Poor  Primavera!" 

"To  save  Salvatore,  to  save  your  brother  and  my  lover 
from  murder,  I  said  I  loved  the  man  who  had  ruined  my  life, 
the  man  I  hate  more  than  anything  on  earth." 

While  Christine  was  describing  to  Zita  what  had  oc- 
curred, the  door  had  opened  and  Salvatore  had  entered  the 
room.  He  sprang  to  her  side.  His  face  was  withered  and 
white;  ten  years  had  passed  over  his  head. 

"Did  you  tell  me  you  loved  him  to  save  me?  Is  that 
why  you  are  here  ?" 

Christine  flung  herself  into  his  arms.  "Yes,  yes!  Of 
course  I  did !  Why  didn't  you  understand !  Oh,  Salva- 
tore, kiss  me  and  love  me !  Only  your  love  matters !  I  was 
almost  mad  with  misery." 

Salvatore's  arms  were  round  her,  but  they  were  not  a 
lover's  arms. 

"I  am  yours,  all  yours,  beloved.  You  must  know  that  it 
is  true.  I  only  tried  to  save  you,  for  if  you  had  murdered 
him  I  could  never  have  married  you."  She  laughed  and 
cried  hysterically.  "Say  it  is  all  right,  dearest — the  agony 
has  passed!"  She  pressed  her  lips  to  his;  she  knew  the 
intoxication  of  her  kisses.  Her  words  ended  in  a  wail,  her 
arms  slackened,  her  lips  begged  for  no  more.  Her  endur- 
ance had  reached  its  limit. 

Zita  had  thrown  herself  face  downwards  on  the  sofa,  to 
blind  herself  to  the  agony  of  the  lovers. 

Christine's  silence  and  her  physical  exhaustion  quickly 
reduced  Salvatore  to  the  level  of  humanity.  His  suspicions 
were  banished.  For  the  moment  every  obstacle  to  their 
happiness  was  forgotten.  Only  one  thing  triumphed — 'her 
love  for  him. 

"Zita,"  Christine  cried,  "Zita,  I  am  forgiven !     Salva- 


260  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

tore  knows  that  I  only  lied  to  save  him."  She  turned  to 
Salvatore.  "Dearest,"  she  murmrued,  "I  couldn't  let  your 
hands  do  it — how  could  I?" 

As  Zita  raised  her  head,  her  eyes  met  Salvatore's.  They 
questioned  him  eagerly.  Had  he  indeed  renounced  his 
Church  and  his  religion? 

In  a  dull  voice  she  reminded  the  lovers  that  the  afternoon 
had  almost  gone,  that  they  must  get  back  to  Girgenti  be- 
fore the  quick  darkness  descended. 

Salvatore  looked  at  his  watch.  Zita  was  right;  they 
must  be  making  their  way  home.  A  little  of  the  ccstacy 
with  which  Christine's  caresses  had  lighted  up  his  face 
left  it.  Zita's  eyes  and  words  had  brought  him  back  to  the 
world  of  reality.  His  eyes  did  not  answer  her  questioning 
gaze.  Had  he  renounced  his  Church?  She  wondered.  If 
he  had  she  could  not  tell  at  the  moment  whether  she  was 
glad  or  sorry.  If  he  had  renounced  it  it  was  for  the 
woman  who  had  saved  him  from  committing  a  hideous 
murder. 

As  Salvatore  closed  the  door  behind  him  and  went  off  to 
bring  the  car  round  to  the  locanda,  Christine  put  her  arms 
round  Zita  and  said: 

"You  see,  piccola  sorella,  it  is  all  right.  Salvatore  said 
nothing  about  the  divorce.  All  that  he  was  unhappy  about 
was  the  silly  fear  that  I  still  loved  Andrea." 

Zita  was  silent.  The  unfolding  of  her  motor-veil  seemed 
to  demand  all  her  thoughts  and  attention. 

Christine  took  her  hands  in  her  own.  "Are  you  glad, 
Zita  mia?  Are  you  glad  that  I  was  right?  Say  some- 
thing— don't  sit  there  like  a  dumb  thing." 

"Gentilissima  Signora" — Zita  had  slipped  back  into  the 
old  formal  address — "if  Salvatore  can  do  it,  I  shall  be  very 
glad.  I  am  a  Catholic,  but  I  love  Salvatore,  I  love  him  far 
more  than  my  own  soul.  If  he  can  marry  you  and  be  happy 
I  shall  be  glad." 

Zita  tried  to  be  very  gentle  and  kind,  but  more  than  that 
she  could  not  be.  Her  beloved  Primavera,  her  almost  divine 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  261 

Signora,  had  been  capable  of  deceit ;  she  had  hidden  from 
Salvatore  the  fact  that  her  husband  was  alive,  even  after 
Salvatore  had  made  his  confession  in  public  of  his  youthful 
act  of  dishonesty !  The  comparison  in  Zita's  eyes  was  dis- 
paraging to  Christine.  Salvatore  had  broken  the  eighth 
commandment.  Christine  was  quite  willing  to  break  the 
seventh,  and  to  Zita  the  breaking  of  the  seventh  meant 
more  than  the  breaking  of  the  eighth,  for  it  involved  dis- 
obedience to  the  Church.  For  her  it  was  adultery  if  Chris- 
tine lived  with  Salvatore  while  her  husband  was  alive,  for 
nothing  in  the  wide  world  but  the  death  of  Andrea  would 
make  Christine  a  free  woman. 

Christine  felt  Zita's  new  attitude  towards  her.  It  had 
come  as  a  surprise  and  a  shock  to  her  that  the  girl  whom 
she  thought  she  understood,  the  modern  and  travelled  Zita, 
still  believed  in  the  dogmas  and  laws  of  her  Church  as  truly 
as  she  believed  that  God  made  the  world.  However,  as 
Salvatore  apparently  did  not  think  as  she  did,  she  com- 
forted herself  with  the  assurance  that  he  would  convince 
his  sister  and  prove  to  her  that  the  doctrines  of  the  Church 
are  not  divine  decrees. 

The  first  part  of  their  drive  home  was  very  trying,  for 
Zita  and  Christine  sat  together  in  the  body  of  the  car, 
whilst  Salvatore  sat  in  the  front  seat.  Christine  felt  that 
her  modern  little  friend  had  suddenly  slipped  back  into  the 
church-fearing,  priest-ridden  Sicilian  of  ten  years  ago. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  journey,  however,  Zita's  soft 
little  figure  gradually  nestled  closer  to  Christine ;  her  hand 
pressed  her  arm.  When  Christine  looked  into  her  upturned 
face  she  saw  tears  rolling  down  her  pale  cheeks. 

For  the  rest  of  their  j  ourney  they  were  happier  and  more 
at  their  ease.  Zita's  attitude  became  silently  expressive  of 
sympathy  and  melancholy.  For  many  years  the  world  had 
spoilt  her;  she  had  grown  accustomed  to  wealth,  pleasure 
and  happiness.  All  that  Salvatore  had  undertaken  had 
succeeded;  wherever  they  went  they  had  made  friends  and 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

met  with  kindness  and  attention.  Her  later  years  had  been 
so  bewilderingly  novel  and  amusing  that  she  had  been  able 
to  brush  aside  all  small  worries.  Wealth  is  a  golden  key ; 
youth  does  not  easily  tire  of  fitting  it  into  new  locks.  Sud- 
denly, and  in  the  cruellest  manner,  her  happiness  had 
seemed  completely  destroyed.  Everything  she  believed  in 
was  shattered.  Salvatore  was  the  sun  of  her  world.  To- 
day she  had  discovered  that  he  was  also  a  shattered  idol,  a 
broken  image. 

Christine  saw  very  little  of  either  Zita  or  Salvatore  that 
night.  After  dinner  Zita  went  off  to  bed  and  Salvatore 
excused  himself  on  the  plea  of  having  business  to  attend  to. 
When  he  came  out  on  to  the  terrace  to  say  good-night  to 
Christine,  he  held  her  in  a  long  and  tender  embrace.  He 
might  have  been  leaving  her  for  years  instead  of  one  night. 

Christine  tried  to  laugh  at  his  tragic  air.  But  her  whis- 
pered words  brought  no  smile  to  his  eyes  or  lightness  to  his 
heart.  Again  clouds  had  gathered  in  his  radiant  world. 

"You  are  so  grave  and  I  am  so  happy,  beloved,"  she 
said,  "so  gloriously  happy.  I  suppose  I  had  to  be  unhappy 
for  all  these  years,  so  as  to  be  worthy  of  you  and  of  all  that 
life  is  going  to  give  us  in  the  future." 

Salvatore's  last  kiss  served  instead  of  an  answer  and 
Christine  went  to  bed  confident  in  the  belief  that  the 
tragedy  of  the  afternoon  had  only  served  to  unite  her  more 
closely  to  her  lover. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE  next  morning  when  Christine  came  downstairs  Zita 
welcomed  her  with  a  grave  face. 

"Salvatore  left  this  note  for  you,"  she  said.  "He  has 
been  called  away  on  very  important  business." 

"And  he  never  even  called  out  good-bye!"     Christine's 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  263 

face  was  immediately  clouded.  "Couldn't  he  have  spared 
one  minute?"  She  took  the  note  from  Zita.  "Did  he  tell 
you  he  was  going?"  Jealousy  sharpened  her  voice;  a  cold 
hand  clutched  at  her  heart. 

"No.    The  padrona  told  me."    Zita's  voice  broke. 

Christine  held  out  her  hand.  "I  was  a  pig!  Forgive 
me,  Zitimt.  But  it  is  so  disappointing,  so  strange." 

She  opened  the  letter.    It  ran : 

"Mio  dolce  Amore, 

"I  must  leave  you  and  Zita  for  a  few  days.  Please  don't 
go  out  alone  and  on  no  account  go  beyond  the  city  limits 
until  I  return.  Do  this  and  spare  me  unnecessary  anxiety. 
Addio. 

"Yours  as  ever  and  for  ever  devotedly  and  in  haste, 

"SAI/VATOBE." 

Christine  handed  the  letter  to  Zita.  "He  never  spoke  a 
word  about  having  to  leave  us  yesterday.  What  can  it  be? 
I  saw  him  for  five  minutes  late  last  night." 

"Sometimes  he  has  to  leave  me  like  that.  It  can't  be 
helped.  That  is  why  I  remained  so  long  at  school." 

"Then  you  think  there  is  no  need  to  worry?" 

"It  is  certainly  strange  that  he  did  not  say  good-bye. 
Otherwise  it  is  just  what  he  is  often  compelled  to  do." 

Christine  drank  her  coffee  and  ate  her  buttered  roll  in 
silence.  Salvatore's  note  was  loving  and  thoughtful.  There 
was  no  use  in  trying  to  create  trouble  and  anxiety  where 
there  was  none,  but  Zita's  grave  eyes  made  it  a  little  diffi- 
cult for  her  to  feel  cheerful  and  confident. 

It  was  a  glorious  morning  and  the  distant  view  in  front 
of  the  terrace  looked  more  than  usually  beautiful.  The 
far-off  temples  were  just  discernible  through  a  soft  haze 
which  hung  over  the  plain ;  it  was  drifting  landwards  from 
the  sea.  Sicilian  cries,  shrill  but  musical,  caught  her  ears ; 
they  were  the  morning  cries  of  vegetable  sellers. 

The  two  girls  on  the  terrace  listened  subconsciously  to 
the  life  of  the  people  which  was  going  on  below  their  high 


264  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

point  of  vantage.  To  Zita  all  things  were  new  and  yet 
strangely  familiar. 

At  last  Christine  said,  "How  are  we  going  to  amuse  our- 
selves until  Salvatore  returns?  We  aren't  Sicilian  enough 
to  watch  these  people  all  day  long,  although  it's  really  the 
nicest  thing  to  do  in  Girgenti." 

Zita  shook  her  head. 

"That  means  you  don't  care.  Zita  dear,  do  be  less 
despondent.  Surely  we  can  be  happy  together?  Will  you 
help  me  to  finish  my  muslin  frock?  You  are  so  clever." 

"Of  course,  if  you  would  like  me  to." 

"I've  scarcely  put  a  stitch  in  it.  The  time  has  just 
flown!" 

"We  were  too  happy  to  sew !" 

"We  are  happy  still,  silly  child !"  Christine  put  her  arms 
round  Zita.  "I  want  to  shake  you  and  wake  you  up,  you 
tragic  Madonnina!  Look — who's  that?  What  a  good- 
looking  man !  He's  lifting  his  very  fine  hat  to  you." 

As  Zita  looked  down  disinterestedly  she  caught  Sardo 
Fontana's  eyes.  "Good  morning.  Come  sta?" 

"Come  sta?"  he  said.  "May  I  come  and  see  you  later 
on?" 

"Yes,  we  shall  be  here  all  day."  She  turned  to  Christine. 
"It  is  Sardo  Fontana.  He  was  coming  to-morrow  night 
any  way,  but  he  seemed  so  glad  to  see  me  and  so  anxious  to 
come,  what  could  I  do  but  invite  him?" 

"Why  not?  It  will  help  to  pass  the  time  for  you." 
Christine's  eyes  followed  the  man  up  the  hill.  "I  can  see 
what  you  mean  about  his  clothes  and  .  .  ." 

Zita  did  not  allow  her  to  finish  her  sentence.  "Oh,  but 
he  is  very  nice.  He  is  a  part  of  one's  old  life.  He  makes 
the  world  feel  more  stable,  more  true." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  have  lost  your  faith  in  me,  Zita  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  Primavera.  I  don't  know  what  I  believe. 
Don't  ask  me.  I  only  know  I  love  you  and  now  you  have 
done  something  I  don't  understand.  Even  Salvatore 
puzzles  me,  and  yet  I  love  him  so  much  that  I  want  him  to 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  265 

do  what  he  is  doing.  I  should  be  just  as  unhappy  if  he 
acted  otherwise." 

"What  is  he  doing?    What  do  you  mean?" 

"He  is  behaving  as  your  lover ;  he  apparently  means  to 
marry  you." 

"Oh,"  Christine  said,  "is  it  that  all  over  again?  Why 
will  you  go  on  worrying  about  a  thing  which  is  of  course 
unpleasant,  but  really  of  no  importance?  Che  sara  sara — 
it  has  to  be  gone  through." 

"Salvatore's  conscience  is  of  great  importance.  If  he 
marries  you — or  rather,  if  he  goes  through  a  form  of  mar- 
riage with  you,  I  don't  believe  he  will  be  happy.  I  know 
he  won't.  Perhaps  he  has  gone  away  for  that  reason." 

"Oh!"  Christine  cried.  "Then  you  want  me  to  give 
him  up?" 

"No,  no!  I  want  him  to  be  happy  and  without  you  I 
think  he  would  die.  You  don't  know  yet  how  much  he  loves 
you,  or  all  that  your  love  means  to  him." 

"Then  what  do  you  want  ?  I  am  not  to  give  him  up  and 
yet  he  will  not  be  happy  if  he  marries  me !" 

"I  don't  know  what  I  want.  That  is  why  I  am  so  un- 
happy. The  problem  cannot  be  solved." 

"Salvatore  isn't  of  your  opinion,  thank  goodness!" 

Zita  remained  silent. 

"Look  at  his  note — read  it  again." 

Zita  read  it.  "Every  word  of  it  is  true.  He  has  been 
yours  in  thought  and  in  spirit  all  these  years.  I  know  it." 

"You  think  he  only  means  that?"  Christine  spoke 
almost  pityingly.  She  knew  better.  She  had  enjoyed  his 
assurance  of  a  more  human  and  natural  devotion. 

"I  can't  think,  Christine.  What  happened  yesterday 
has  made  so  me  stupid,  so  brainless !  I  am  bewildered.  You 
should  not  listen  to  what  I  say — just  believe  what  you  like." 

"You  still  love  me?    You  aren't  angry  with  me?" 

"If  only  he  were  dead!"  Zita  said  impulsively.  "If 
only  he  were  dead!  Or  if  there  had  been  no  yesterday 
afternoon !  You  could  have  married  him  so  soon !" 


266  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

"Why  will  you  keep  on  saying  'You  could,'  Zita?  Sal- 
vatore  knows  that  I  can  divorce  Andrea." 

"Ah,  Signora,  does  he?" 

"Of  course.    Why  not?" 

"Because  God  married  you."    Zita's  eyes  were  grave. 

"God  never  did  such  a  cruel  thing.  God  is  all  love  and 
mercy  and  sympathy.  Would  it  be  like  a  loving  Father  or 
a  kind  Friend  to  do  such  a  thing?  Would  anyone  who  was 
all-Love  marry  an  ignorant,  romantic  girl  to  a  villain? 
Would  any  God  do  such  a  thing?" 

"You  married  him  against  your  aunt's  wishes." 

"Yes,  because  I  was  young  and  foolish.  If  it  had  been 
against  God's  wish  of  course  He  wouldn't  have  let  me  do  it. 
And  if  it  was  His  wish  He  certainly  would  not  have  re- 
venged Himself  in  that  hideous  manner.  It  is  only  your 
Church  that  teaches  you  these  things.  They  aren't  true, 
Zita  mia.  They  are  unfair  to  Christianity." 

"But  the  Church  cannot  marry  you  to  Salvatore !" 

"All  the  same,  I  am  going  to  marry  Salvatore,  little 
stupid.  And  as  I  said  to  Salvatore,  I  am  almost  glad  it  all 
happened.  I  so  hated  him  not  knowing.  It  was  always 
there,  always  spoiling  my  happiness.  And  then  when 
I  tried  to  tell  him  he  just  wouldn't  listen,  and  always  I  was 
so  glad,  so  awfully  glad." 

"Poor  Primavera !  But  I  want  to  go  to  Church."  Zita 
spoke  determinedly.  "I  feel  so  wicked;  I  must  try  and 
make  my  thoughts  less  awful."  She  looked  at  Christine. 
"All  the  time  I  am  wishing  that  someone  would  kill  your 
husband.  I  feel  like  a  murderess,  and  that  is  almost  as 
wicked  as  being  one." 

"Wait  for  a  minute  and  I  will  come  with  you." 

"No,  no.  I  can  go  alone — it's  so  near.  I  will  only  go 
to  the  little  church  round  there."  Zita  pointed  to  the  white- 
washed building  tucked  away  in  the  bastion  of  the  wall 
which  guarded  their  terrace. 

"It  is  just  there,  I  know — I  could  throw  this  cigarette  on 
it.  But  you  have  to  go  through  the  streets  to  reach  it. 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  267 

Come  along,  let's  go  together.  Remember  what  Salvatore 
said  in  his  letter.  I  know  he  wouldn't  like  you  to  go  alone." 
Her  voice  sank  to  a  whisper.  "I  suppose  he  is  afraid  of 
Andrea." 

The  two  girls  were  kneeling  together  in  the  old  church  in 
which  Sardo  Fontana  had  handed  Zita  his  fatal  note.  Zita 
had  been  praying  long  and  earnestly. 

As  Christine  watched  her  she  said  to  herself,  "I  hope 
when  Sardo  Fontana  comes  he  will  make  her  forget  yester- 
day's tragedy.  She  is  still  highly  emotional." 

To  her  surprise  and  pleasure  she  noticed  Sardo  Fontana 
enter  the  church  at  that  moment.  He  tiptoed  to  a  seat 
close  behind  Zita.  He  proceeded  to  watch  her  closely 
through  his  uplifted  hands. 

Christine  rose  from  her  knees  and  left  the  building. 
Sardo  would  see  Zita  home ;  he  was  evidently  waiting  until 
the  girl  had  finished  her  prayers.  His  company  would  be 
far  better  for  her. 

When  Zita  rose  from  her  knees  and  walked  to  the  door 
of  the  churdh,  Sardo  did  the  same.  They  met  as  if  by 
chance  just  as  she  was  pushing  aside  the  leather  curtain. 
Sardo  smiled  as  she  recognised  him  in  the  bright  sunlight. 

"It  is  strange  to  meet  here  again,  Signorina.  Much 
water  has  passed  under  the  bridge  since  the  last  time  we 
dipped  under  that  curtain  together." 

"S5,  molto,  molto."     Zita's  eyes  were  unsmiling. 

"But  you  are  in  trouble  ?"  She  saw  that  her  tears  pained 
him.  "Can  you  let  me  help  you,  Signorina?  For  the  sake 
of  long  ago  trust  me  with  your  trouble.  A  trouble  shared 
is  a  trouble  halved." 

"Yes,  we  are  in  much  trouble,"  Zita  said  simply,  "but 
no-one  can  help  us.  You  could  do  nothing." 

As  she  said  the  words  she  remembered  his  words:  "If 
the  man  were  alive  I  would  find  him  and  kill  him!"  A 
curious  chill  trickled  over  her  skin. 

"If  I  do  not  know  what  it  is,  that  is  true,  Signorina. 


268  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

You  were  so  happy  three  days  ago,  so  untroubled.  And 
now  ...  !" 

"Our  poor  palace  of  pleasure  has  fallen  to  the  ground. 
But  don't  ask  me  to  tell  you.  No,  no!"  Zita  shook  her 
head,  her  expression  changed. 

Sardo  Fontana  saw  fear  in  her  eyes,  where  there  had 
been  tears. 

"Let  us  rest  here,  on  this  wall,  and  talk  things  over,  for 
I  too  have  something  which  I  must  tell  you.  It  is  not 
pleasant  news,  but  I  think  you  ought  to  know  it."  He 
looked  at  her.  "The  bearer  of  ill  tidings  is  always  an  ugly 
fellow,  Signorina." 

"Tell  me,"  she  said  eagerly,  "what  have  you  heard?" 

"That  Count  Zarano,  as  he  still  calls  himself,  is  alive, 
that  he  is  the  excavator  of  the  classic  sites  at  Licata." 

"You  knew  it?  And  yet  you  asked  me  to  tell  you  our 
trouble?"  She  looked  at  him  with  eyes  which  expressed 
more  than  amazement. 

"But  surely,  Signorina,  things  are  not  so  bad  as  all 
that?  The  Contessa  can  divorce  him.  He  has  formed 
new  ties  and  I  suppose  he  has  long  since  ceased  to  support 
her?" 

"Sacre  Madre !  You  too  can  say  these  things  ?  You  too 
can  speak  lightly  of  divorce?" 

"No,  not  lightly,"  he  said  quickly.  "Remember,  the 
Contessa  is  above  suspicion.  In  this  case  .  .  ." 

"All  cases  are  the  same,"  Zita  said,  interrupting  him 
impatiently.  "Marriage  is  for  better  or  for  worse." 

"Ma !  Signorina,  you  don't  mean  that  your  brother  will 
give  her  up  ?  He  will  not  take  advantage  of  the  law  of  his 
country?  Your  brother  knows  what  the  Count  is." 

"Salvatore  loves  Primavera  so  much  that  for  the  present 
he  does  not  know  what  to  do.  We  have  not  discussed  it ; 
but  I  know  him.  If  he  lives  with  her  he  will  never  be  happy. 
The  laws  of  his  Church  mean  more  to  him  than  the  laws  of 
the  State."  She  looked  up.  "You  know  how  the  laws  of 
the  State  are  made.  You  can  remain  a  loyal  and  patriotic 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  269 

Italian  even  if  you  break  a  hundred  laws  made  by  the  vile 
politicians  who  are  ruining  the  country.  With  the  Church 
it  is  different." 

"You  make  me  feel  ashamed,  piccola  donna.  You  are  so 
in  earnest.  Your  Church  means  so  much  to  you." 

"And  to  you  ?"  she  asked.  "Would  you  marry  a  woman 
who  had  divorced  her  husband  because  she  wished  to  marry 
you  ?" 

"Veramenta,  donninina,  if  the  woman  I  loved  could  be 
mine  for  the  divorcing  of  a  bad  husband,  or  for  the  killing 
of  him,  I  would  marry  her  and  worship  her." 

"Amico  mio!  Amico  mio!"  Zita  murmured  the  words 
pityingly.  She  was  the  woman  for  whom  he  would  do  these 
things ! 

"The  woman  I  love  is  the  custodian  of  my  soul,  donna 
mia." 

While  they  spoke  without  words,  the  silence  became 
acute. 

"And  Primavera  thinks  as  you  think,"  Zita  said  nerv- 
ously. "She  never  imagined  that  we  should  think  other- 
wise. Thousands  of  Protestants  are  divorced  every  year 
and  marry  again.  I  suppose  because  we  have  lived  in 
America  she  thought  it  wouldn't  matter." 

"Then  she  knew?"  he  said  slowly.     "She  knew?" 

"You  mustn't  blame  her,"  Zita  said  loyally.  "She  was 
only  weak  because  she  was  so  happy,  so  happy  that  she  put 
off  telling  us.  Salvatore  will  tell  you  how  she  tried  to  tell 
him  more  than  once." 

Sardo  Fontana  was  silent.  His  mind  was  working 
rapidly. 

"Don't  you  understand  how  it  was?  Poor  Primavera! 
She  has  suffered  so  much;  happiness  and  Salvatore's  love 
were  so  precious.  You  must  remember,  she  really  thought 
that  it  did  not  matter.  But  now!  What  are  we  to  do? 
What  in  heaven's  name  are  we  to  do?" 

"I  can't  advise  you,  for  I  don't  feel  about  divorce  as  you 
do.  If  I  were  Salvatore,  I  should  marry  her." 


270  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

"Why  did  you  come  to  church?  Are  you  not  a  good 
Catholic?" 

"Si,  si."  He  laughed.  "Ma,  I  suppose  I  treat  the 
Church  as  you  treat  the  State.  When  I  approve  of  its 
laws  I  obey  them,  when  I  don't  I  break  them.  I  go  to 
church  to  pray  to  God ;  I  believe  and  hope  that  He  is  above 
all  these  dogmatic  disputes.  But  this  morning  I  didn't  go 
to  pray." 

"Oh,  don't!"  Zita  said.  "Please  don't!"  Her  distress 
touched  him. 

"I  will  try  not  to,"  he  said  apologetically. 

"I  want  a  trustworthy  friend,  not  a  lover.  Won't  you 
be  that  friend?" 

"Half  a  cake  is  better  than  none.     I  will  do  my  best." 

Zita  held  out  her  hand.    He  clasped  it  eagerly. 

"Madonnina!  Madonnina!"  he  said.  "You  are  so 
beautiful!  How  can  a  man  do  what  you  ask?  How  can  I 
be  no  more  to  you  than  a  friend  when  there  is  nothing  of 
me  but  love  for  you?" 

His  sudden  and  vehement  outburst  was  only  what  Zita 
had  expected.  Sooner  or  later  she  knew  that  it  would  come. 
She  knew  the  moment  she  saw  him  at  the  church  door  that 
she  must  make  him  understand  that  if  they  were  to  see 
much  of  one  another,  he  must  be  contented  with  her 
friendship. 

She  did  not  withdraw  her  hand.  She  was  an  adept  in 
the  art  of  conciliation.  She  could  always  make  the  most 
ardent  pleader  see  that  it  was  wiser  to  accept  what  she  was 
willing  to  give  than  be  banished  for  ever  because  he  could 
not  get  all  that  he  wanted.  Sardo's  speech  could  still  be 
reckoned  with  in  the  abstract.  All  that  she  had  to  do  was 
to  warn  him  that  as  a  friend  he  could  see  as  much  of  her  as 
his  time  permitted ;  as  a  lover  he  must  say  farewell. 

He  took  the  warning  and  meant  to  abide  by  it.  He  felt 
confident  that  Salvafcore's  love  for  Christine,  which  had 
been  so  enduring,  would  triumph.  He  judged  him  by  his 
own  feelings  and  convictions.  Manlike,  he  loved  Zita  all 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  271 

the  more  intensely  for  her  earnest  and  devout  religious 
sentiments.  Women  should  be  conscientiously  religious. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  Salvatore  renounced  Christine  on 
account  of  his  convictions,  as  a  man  and  a  lover  he  would 
be  unworthy  of  her.  With  Sardo  the  Church  came  a  long 
way  after  the  woman. 

When  they  parted  at  the  door  of  the  Albergo,  in  spite  of 
the  seriousness  of  their  conversation,  Zita  was  in  a  less  de- 
pressed state  than  when  she  had  parted  with  Christine.  It 
does  a  woman's  spirits  good  to  meet  a  man  who  desires  and 
admires  her.  In  ten  cases  out  of  twelve  his  passion  thrills 
her  if  it  does  not  bore  her. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

BY  Sunday  evening  the  gown  which  Zita  had  helped  Chris- 
tine to  make  was  finished.  As  Sardo  Fontana  was  coming, 
Zita  begged  her  to  put  it  on.  She  wished  Christine  to  look 
her  very  best. 

Scarcely  anything  happened  during  the  evening,  nothing 
that  bears  recording,  beyond  the  fact  that  Sardo  Fontana 
was  greatly  impressed  by  Christine,  so  greatly  that  he 
stood  a  little  in  awe  of  her  and  therefore  did  but  poor 
justice  to  himself.  Zita  knew  that  Christine  was  acutely 
conscious  of  all  his  shortcomings  and  of  his  air  of  almost 
acknowledged  social  inferiority. 

But  Christine  was  determined  to  make  him  her  friend  and 
put  him  at  his  ease.  She  wanted  his  influence  when  the 
time  came  for  discussing  the  subject  of  her  divorce.  She 
certainly  did  win  his  admiration  and  respect,  if  it  cannot 
be  truthfully  said  that  she  succeeded  in  putting  the  poor 
man  at  his  ease.  Zita  possessed  that  human  gift  of  sym- 
pathy which  is  so  peculiarly  Latin;  she  was  "simpatica." 
Christine  could  be  sympathetic  and  very  often  was  so ;  but 
on  this  occasion,  where  Zita  would  have  succeeded,  she 
failed. 


272  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

When  she  left  the  terrace,  after  they  had  drank  their 
coffee  and  smoked  for  a  little  time,  Zita  turned  quickly  to 
her  companion.  Her  eyes  questioned  him;  they  asked, 
What  do  you  think  of  her? 

"Come  e  bella,"  he  said  spontaneously,  "come  e  bella." 

Zita  smiled.  "And  she  is  altogether  beautiful.  Long 
ago  she  was  just  as  nice  to  me  as  she  is  now." 

"Senta!  Signorina,  tell  me — am  I  correct?  Was  she 
with  you  in  the  cake-shop  that  day?  Do  you  remember?" 

"Yes." 

He  sighed.  "I  remember  it  all  so  well.  Her  clear  blue 
eyes  are  just  the  same;  they  are  so  unlike  the  Sicilian 
blue." 

"Poor  Salvatore!  How  he  suffered  that  day!"  Zita 
told  him  very  quietly  the  events  of  that  afternoon.  "Caro 
Salvatore,"  she  said  thoughtfully,  "he  was  so  wounded. 
We  lived  humbly,  as  you  know,  amico  mio,  but  the  Maz- 
zinis  did  not  always  live  like  that."  Her  eyes  sought  his. 
"Salvatore's  character  shows  how  directly  the  great  Maz- 
zini  'Aood  flows  in  his  veins."  She  laughed  tenderly.  "My 
father  married  the  daughter  of  a  dreamer  and  an  inventor 
like  himself,  and  so  we  just  drifted  down  and  down  until 
.  .  ."  she  shrugged  her  shoulders,  "well  until  it  was  very 
beautiful  and  wonderful  of  the  Signorina  Lovat,  as  she 
then  was,  to  make  a  friend  of  me  and  to  treat  my  brother 
as  her  equal." 

"Si,  si."  He  nodded  his  head.  "Hers  is  not  only  a 
charming  face;  it  is  a  noble  one.  Your  brother  will  be 
happy.  He  is  fortunate ;  everything  he  does  succeeds.  He 
is  a  strange  mixture  of  a  practical  man  and  an  idealist." 

"Since  I  saw  you  yesterday  morning  I  have  banished 
thought.  I  have  been  singing  and  playing  and  .  .  .  yes, 
really  ...  I  made  the  dress  Christine  is  wearing." 

"You  can  do  anything,  Signorina,  you  are  everything." 

A  warning  hand  went  up.  "Don't  forget !  Don't  make 
me  not  nice  to  you,  or  I  shan't  be  able  to  sing.  What  shall 
I  sing? — some  gay  Neapolitan  song?" 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  273 

"Anything,  Signorina,  except  'caro  nome.' '  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Perhaps  some  day,  if  the  fates 
are  kind — qui  sait?" 

"Do  you  know  this?  Everyone  in  Naples  is  singing  it 
just  now?"  She  hummed  a  catchy  fisherman's  air. 

"Yes,  I  know  it."    He  hummed  the  air  with  her. 

"Then  let's  sing  it  together.  It's  so  gay  and  yet  so 
strangely  melancholy;  so  typically  Neapolitan  with  its 
fascinating  jerky  time.  Neapolitan  music  is  so  expressive 
of  that  gay  pagan  city,  which  is  always  jesting  and  play- 
ing with  life.  I  love  the  brave  way  it  snaps  its  fingers  at 
care  while  all  the  time  Vesuvius  lies  smouldering  behind  it." 

Sardo's  eyes  drank  in  every  word  she  said.  He  nodded 
his  head.  They  sang  again  for  a  few  minutes. 

"Our  voices  go  well  together,"  she  said  gaily. 

"I  thought  so  ten  years  ago." 

"When  I  made  that  noise?" 

"When  I  gave  you  my  heart,"  he  said  solemnly. 

"Ma,  that  was  rash,  for  we  didn't  know  each  other." 

"Prego,  Signorina,  what  is  knowing?  Do  we  ever  know 
anyone?  How  often  had  Salvatore  seen  the  Contessa?" 
Sardo  always  spoke  of  Christine  as  the  Contessa. 

"Three  times,  I  think." 

"And  he  remembered  her  all  these  years?" 

"But  he  is  a  Mazzini.  Our  men  are  all  the  same;  nd 
Mazzini  was  ever  faithless  to  a  lover  or  to  a  cause." 

"You  are  a  Mazzini,  Signorina." 

Zita  again  raised  a  warning  hand.  "Basta!"  was  all 
she  said  laughingly. 

"It  is  impossible,  Signorina,  im-pos-si-ble."  He  spoke 
slowly  and  in  Italian. 

"What  is  impossible?" 

"I  love  you,  Signorina,  and  I  am  human."  He  rose  to 
go.  "Any  man  would  fall  you  the  same  thing." 

"I  am  so  sorry."  Zita  spoke  as  if  she  had  been  rude 
and  was  apologising.  "I  owed  you  so  much  long  ago.  I 
wish  I  could  .  .  ."  she  paused.  "I  really  wish  .  .  ." 


274  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

"That  you  could  love  me  ?    It  needs  no  saying." 

Zita  was  silent. 

He  looked  at  her  with  grave  eyes.  "It  would  be  a 
pleasure  to  suffer  for  you,  donna  mia.  Physical  agony 
borne  for  you  would  be  exquisite.  Anything  but  this  poor 
attempt  at  friendship!"  He  threw  back  his  head  and 
stopped  abruptly. 

"Ah,  here  comes  La  Primavera!"  Zita  said.  "Doesn't 
she  look  like  a  spirit?  She  should  never  have  left  us,  amico 
mio." 

"In  the  old  Sicily  she  dared  not  have  been  so  kind." 

"In  the  real  Sicily  it  does  not  happen  now;  it  is  only 
you  and  I  who  have  changed.  We  are  no  longer  true 
Sicilians." 

"If  I  had  the  Wishing  Cap,  Signorina,  I  would  wish 
that  we  were  Sicilians  again,  that  we  were  just  as  we  were 
ten  years  ago." 

Zita  refused  to  be  serious.  "Primavera,  come  here !"  she 
called  out.  "Signer  Fontana  says  that  if  he  had  a  Wish- 
ing Cap,  he  would  put  it  on  and  wish  that  we  were  just  as 
we  were  ten  years  ago.  What  do  you  say?" 

Christine  answered  immediately,  "Certainly  not.  I'd  go 
through  it  all  again  for  this." 

"I  congratulate  you,  Signora.  Fate  has  not  been  so 
kind  to  me,"  he  said  simply.  "I  have  prospered  financially ; 
but  what  is  money  without  a  'home?  And  my  only  child 
.  .  ."  he  threw  back  his  head. 

Christine's  eyes  met  his;  he  saw  that  she  was  wholly 
sympathetic.  And  indeed  she  was,  for  the  situation  as  it 
stood  was  strangely  pathetic  to  her.  She  saw  it  very 
plainly — the  disillusionment  of  the  girl  and  the  infatuation 
of  the  man.  All  that  he  said  was  so  good  and  true,  and  yet 
there  was  so  much  that  was  wrong  about  him.  They  were 
such  pathetically  small  points  upon  which  he  failed.  The 
nuances  of  what  we  call  good  breeding  are  so  small  and  so 
delicate  that  they  will  not  bear  the  rough  handling  of  words. 
It  is  impossible  to  give  a  purely  Western  mind  a  correct 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  275 

impression  of  the  man's  social  shortcomings,  for  where  an 
Englishman  would  have  failed,  Sardo  succeeded,  and  where 
an  Englishman  would  have  been  quite  correct,  he  was  all 
wrong. 

Everything  Zita  did  or  said  seemed  to  plunge  him  more 
deeply  into  the  ocean  of  love,  and  the  more  in  love  with 
her  he  became,  the  less  chance  he  allowed  himself  of 
winning  her.  When  he  said  good-bye  to  her,  to  see  her 
again  had  become  as  essential  to  him  as  drink  is  to  a 
drunkard. 

When  the  girls  were  left  alone  on  the  terrace,  Christine 
said  abruptly,  "Why  don't  you  kill  your  victim  and  be 
done  with  it,  Zitina  ?  Don't  play  the  cat-and-mouse  trick ! 
I  hate  to  see  you  torturing  him." 

Zita  looked  at  her  in  astonishment.  "Torturing  him? 
Oh,  Christine,  if  only  I  couldn't  see  his  waxed  moustache 
and  his  .  .  ." 

"And  the  too  big  flower  in  his  buttonhole,"  Christine 
added,  "and  his  lavender  satin  tie  and  his  .  .  ." 

"Don't,  don't !"  Zita  said.  "I  nearly  let  him  kiss  me — 
I  hated  them  so  much." 

"To  crucify  the  flesh?" 

"Because  I  felt  such  a  low  down  thing." 

"You  think  you  shouldn't  be  affected  by  these  things, 
that  the  man  is  above  them?" 

"They  shouldn't  matter.  He  saved  me  once;  he  would 
kill  himself  to  make  me  happy  now." 

"You  wouldn't  notice  these  things  or  care  a  fig  about 
them  if  you  loved  him." 

"But  if  it  isn't  these  things  which  prevent  me  loving 
him,  what  is  it  ?  I  once  loved  him,  or  I  thought  I  did." 

"You've  developed,  passed  away  from  him.  You  can't 
make  yourself  love  him,  so  don't  try.  But  for  pity's  sake 
don't  lead  him  on  to  think  that  you  ever  will." 

"Oh,  I  don't !  I  have  told  him  that  very  plainly,  very 
cruelly." 

"But  what  have  you  looked,  Zitina?    What  have  those 


276  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

melting  eyes  not  said?  What  have  they  not  made  him 
hope?" 

"I  can't  be  horrid  when  people  are  nice.  I  was  only  quite 
natural,  I  was  just  my  own  self." 

"Then  I  suppose  the  Almighty  is  to  blame  for  making 
any  woman  such  an  intensified  atom  of  adorableness.  Come 
to  bed.  This  time  to-morrow  night  Salvatore  will  be  here." 
She  sighed.  "When  I  watch  you,  I  only  wish  I  could  be 
one  quarter  as  nice  and  tender  to  him." 

"Oh,  but  you  are,  carina !  To  Salvatore  you  are  divine 
and  all  your  ways  are  the  best." 

"That  is  because  he-  is  a  Mazzini  and  he  can't  help  being 
faithful."  Christine  laughed  happily.  "What  a  glorious 
quality  to  possess!  What  an  inheritance!"  She  paused 
and  then  said  abruptly,  as  though  she  had  torn  her  mind 
from  distant  things,  "Good-night,  Zitina." 

"Good-night,  sorella  mia."  Zita's  use  of  the  word 
"sister"  was  intentional;  her  love  for  Christine  so  often 
triumphed  over  her  anxiety  for  Salvatore's  future;  her 
fears  came  and  went  like  neuralgic  pains. 

"Thanks,  dearest.  Good-night."  Christine's  eyes  shone 
happily.  The  girl's  intentional  use  of  the  word  which  she 
had  not  used  since  the  tragedy  of  Licata  seemed  a  happy 
augury. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

To  do  honour  to  her  lover's  return  the  next  day  Christine 
put  on  her  white  muslin  frock,  and  Zita  had  bought  for  tea 
the  most  delicate  and  appetising  pasticceria  she  could  find 
in  the  town.  Salvatore  had  a  great  weakness  for  the  light 
pastry  of  Sicily. 

Christine  was  waiting  for  his  coming  on  the  terrace. 
When  he  did  at  last  arrive,  the  padrona  ushered  him  out 
with  the  words,  "Lui  stesso  (himself),  Signora  Contessa." 

As  Christine  looked  at  "lui  stesso"  who  was  walking  to 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  277 

meet  her,  she  saw  a  new  man,  a  worn  and  physically  ex- 
hausted one,  a  mere  suggestion  of  the  old  Salvatore.  At 
the  moment  he  looked  twice  his  real  age. 

"My  darling,"  she  cried,  "you  are  ill!  Have  you  had 
fever?  Where  on  earth  have  you  been?  Why  did  you  go 
away  ?" 

Salvatore  took  her  outstretched  hands,  but  he  made  no 
attempt  to  embrace  her. 

"You  poor  darling,"  she  said,  "you  are  absolutely  worn 
out !  Come  and  have  a  cup  of  tea.  Zita  has  bought  your 
favourite  'squashy  cakes.' '  Her  voice  suddenly  trailed  off, 
a  feeling  of  mystery  and  disaster  overwhelmed  her.  As  he 
remained  silent,  she  said  excitedly,  "Salvatore,  what  is  the 
matter?  Why  don't  you  speak  to  me?  Are  you  too  ill  to 
want  my  lips  ?"  They  were  held  up  to  his. 

Salvatore  sank  into  a  chair.  He  made  no  attempt  to 
speak.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  ground. 

Christine  knelt  down  beside  him.  "My  dearest,  you  are 
unkind!  Don't  frighten  me.  Tell  me,  what  has  happened? 
Tell  me  what  you've  been  doing." 

"I  have  been  fighting,"  he  said  "fighting  a  deadly 
duel." 

"Salvatore!"  Christine's  cry  rang  through  the  air. 
"You  haven't  killed  him?  You  didn't  leave  me  to  do  that?" 

"That  would  not  have  been  so  hard.  He  still  pollutes 
the  earth." 

"Then  what  do  you  mean?"  For  a  moment  Christine 
wondered  if  he  were  delirious;  fever  patients  go  through 
Strange  phases  of  delirium. 

He  touched  her  white  dress  and  bright  hair  with 
trembling  hands.  "If  only  you  weren't  so  beautiful !  Why 
this  new  temptation?"  His  wretched  eyes  gazed  at  her 
accusingly. 

"Zita  made  it  for  me,  to  please  you."  She  spoke  hu- 
mouringly.  Surely  he  was  delirious? 

"It's  beautiful,"  he  said.  "But  if  only  you  had  been  a 
little  less  enchanting!" 


278  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

"Dear  man,  don't  be  foolish !  We  are  all  going  to  have 
tea  together.  Zita  has  been  very  happy  all  day  long  be- 
cause you  were  coming  back  to  us." 

"She  has  been  happy?"     He  looked  surprised. 

"Just  full  of  fun  and  nonsense — the  old  Gioconda." 

"Then  I  was  wrong.     That  is  odd,  very  odd." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  felt  that  she  was  with  me,  that's  all.  I  thought  she 
knew;  always  when  I  suffer,  she  suffers  too." 

"I  shall  be  jealous  of  Zita."  Christine  tried  to  laugh. 
"When  did  you  begin  to  feel  ill,  to  suffer?  Won't  you  tell 
me?" 

"I  am  riot  ill,"  he  said  wearily,  "not  in  the  way  you 
think."  He  turned  his  head  away.  "If  I  sit  like  this 
perhaps  I  can  tell  you.  No,  don't  touch  me.  Let  me  be 
strong.  Don't  come  any  nearer — stay  there." 

"Dear  man,  you  are  crazy !  Whatever  has  happened  to 
you?"  Christine's  voice  was  desperate. 

"All  must  be  over  between  us,"  he  said  defiantly.  "That 
is  what  I  am  trying  to  tell  you.  You  are  another  man's 
wife.  Nothing  can  make  you  mine,  not  all  my  years  of 
love  and  devotion." 

As  he  shook  his  head  a  heartbroken  cry  pierced  the  air. 
It  was  carried  down  to  the  peaceful  farms  encircled  by 
high  defences  of  prickly  pears.  As  it  rang  out  Salvatore 
shivered  and  shrunk ;  it  had  stabbed  his  heart  like  a  dagger. 

Long  after  the  cry  came  Christine's  broken  words. 
"You  have  given  me  up  ?  You  mean  you  are  not  going  to 
marry  me?  You  can  do  this  thing  Salvatore?" 

"I  must,"  he  said.    "You  can't  be  the  wife  of  two  men." 

"Then  let  me  be  your  mistress."  The  fighting  instinct 
was  roused  in  Christine.  "In  my  own  eyes  I  shall  be  your 
wife." 

He  moved  further  away  from  her.  "It  can  never  mean 
happiness  for  either  of  us,  and  I  can  only  give  you  up  if  I 
behave  as  I  am  behaving." 

"It  would  mean  happiness  for  me,  Salvatore.     I  would 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  379 

rather  be  your  mistress  than  any  other  man's  wife.  Oh, 
my  dearest,"  she  said  desperately,  "can't  you  love  me  a 
little  more  than  your  church?" 

"Don't  you  know  that  if  I  didn't  love  you  more  than 
anything  in  the  world  I  should  agree  to  do  what  you  sug- 
gest? I  should  go  through  this  mockery  of  a  marriage. 
Primavera  mia,  he  said  brokenly,  "don't  you  understand? 
Don't  you  know  that  it  is  because  you  are  what  you  are 
to  me,  that  I  can't  do  it?" 

"You  left  me  meaning  to  do  this?" 

"I  left  you  because  I  was  too  weak  to  do  it,  too  weak 
until  I  had  fought  out  the  duel  with  my  higher  self." 

"Your  higher  self  has  triumphed!  The  poor  human 
woman  who  cares  for  nothing  but  your  love  has  been 
beaten !" 

"Sacramento,"  he  said  wildly,  "don't  torture  me!"  He 
writhed  in  his  chair,  but  he  kept  his  eyes  determinedly 
turned  from  her  while  he  spoke. 

"Oh,  Salvatore,  if  I  could  only  make  you  see  things 
sanely  and  reasonably!  You  know  that  if  we  were  both 
free  and  if  we  were  married  in  your  church  by  ten  bishops 
and  six  archbishops  and  a  dozen  priests,  we  should  not 
be  man  and  wife  according  to  the  laws  of  your  State, 
unless  we  were  also  married  at  the  Municipio.  Whereas 
if  we  were  married  at  the  Municipio  and  not  in  the  church 
at  all,  we  should  be  man  and  wife.  It  is  the  State  con- 
tract that  matters.  I  can  be  divorced  by  the  State  and 
married  by  the  State,  thank  God." 

"You  think  so?"     He  shook  his  head. 

Christine  became  impatient.  "I  knew  you  were  a  Roman 
Catholic,  but  I  never  dreamed  that  you  still  thought  like 
that.  Do  you  believe  that  the  Pope  has  temporal  as  well 
as  spiritual  power? 

"No,  no,"  He  spoke  quickly.  "I  think  temporal 
things  belong  to  the  State,  but  our  marriage  belonged  to 
things  spiritual." 

"Belonged?"     Christine  sobbed.     "Oh,   Salvatore   'be- 


280  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

longed'?  Why  do  you  speak  of  it  as  if  it  were  a  thing  of 
the  past?" 

"It  is  past,"  he  said.  "Your  husband  is  alive ;  until  he 
is  dead  you  are  his  wife." 

"You  tried  to  kill  him,  and  yet  you  are  too  religious  to 
marry  me?" 

"Why  did  you  save  him?     He  needed  killing." 

She  caught  hold  of  his  hand.  "Tell  me,  would  you  have 
married  me?  Would  you,  Salvatore?" 

"There  can  be  no  answer  to  that  question.  At  the  time 
I  gave  no  thought  to  the  future  or  to  what  I  should  do." 
He  withdrew  his  hand.  "This  I  do  know — that  I  was  not 
going  to  take  his  life  so  that  I  might  marry  his  widow. 
The  man  wanted  killing!  I  should  have  done  it." 

Christine  fell  on  her  knees  beside  his  chair;  her  head 
sought  his  knees.  "Take  me,  she  said  pitifully.  "Oh,  do 
take  me !  Our  love  can't  be  wrong !  If  you  love  me  as  I 
love  you,  you  couldn't  doubt  it,  you  simply  couldn't!" 

Salvatore's  strength  was  ebbing.  He  tried  to  draw  him- 
self away  from  the  long  arms  which  were  creeping  further 
and  further  round  his  exhausted  body.  He  was  silent,  but 
soon  'his  lips  were  pressed  to  her  throat.  His  body  no 
longer  sought  for  distance.  It  was  throbbing  against  hers, 
throbbing  and  trembling  as  a  man's  body  trembles  when 
passion  has  to  be  mastered,  when  desire  drives  and  honour 
holds  the  reins. 

"My  husband,  my  dear,  dear  man,  say  something !  Tell 
me  you  won't  do  it  again!  You  have  nearly  killed  your 
Christine.  Oh,  my  darling,  my  darling,  why  have  you 
been  so  foolish?  Why  did  you  make  this  trouble?  We 
were  so  happy!"  She  paused  for  a  moment;  her  ears 
hungered  for  assurance.  "Don't  only  kiss  me,  Salvatore! 
Say  you  won't  leave  me,  say  over  and  over  again,  'sposa 
mia,  sposa  mia,'  as  you  used  to  say  it!  Have  you  for- 
gotten so  soon?"  Christine  waited.  "Have  you  for- 
gotten how  you  implored  me  to  fix  our  wedding-day?" 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  281 

Evening  cries  were  reaching  their  ears  from  the  road 
below.  The  toilers  in  the  fields  were  returning  to  the  city. 
"Amonine,  amonine!"  came  from  the  different  voices  of 
the  mule  and  donkey  riders.  Young  kids  were  bleating  as 
they  hurried  after  their  mothers,  who  were  following  the 
herdsmen  in  their  own  straggling  and  disobedient  fashion. 

Christine  had  listened  to  the  same  sounds  in  the  morning 
with  a  happy  heart  and  satisfied  mind.  In  the  evening 
Salvaifcore  would  be  with  her ;  they  would  be  watching  these 
same  workers  returning  to  the  town  and  to  their  homes. 

The  evening  had  come  and  with  it  the  accustomed 
sounds.  There  were  the  high  flying  birds,  mere  black 
specks  in  the  sky,  homing  their  familiar  way. 

Salvatore's  silence  maddened  her;  it  kept  her  heart  full 
of  fear. 

"I  have  done  all  the  love-making,"  she  said  bitterly, 
"all  of  it!  I  feel  like  one  of  Bernard  Shaw's  odious 
women!  Can't  you  help  my  fallen  pride?" 

"Primavera  mia,"  he  said  gently,  "sempre  sorridente, 
sempre  allegra,  sempre  rosea."  It  was  his  old  greeting. 

"That's  not  what  I  want."  She  'held  his  face  in  her  two 
hands.  "I  am  not  going  to  let  you  off.  Say  just  as  you 
used  to  say,  'Mogliettina,'  'sposa  mia,'  and  all  the  other 
things  you  could  never  say  often  enough." 

Someone  had  come  out  on  to  the  terrace.  She  slipped 
from  Salvatore's  arms,  and  stood  up. 

"Now  do  let's  be  cheerful,"  she  said.  "Here  comes  Zita ; 
she  is  just  recovering  from  the  shock  she  got  at  Licata." 

Salvatore  took  his  sister  in  his  arms  and  held  her 
hungrily  to  him.  A  pang  of  jealousy  poisoned  Christine's 
joy.  Zita  clung  to  him  and  hugged  him  as  if  he  had  been 
parted  from  her  for  years  instead  of  days. 

When  Salvatore  let  her  go  Zita  made  no  remark  upon 
the  change  in  his  appearance.  She  accepted  i'c  as  if  she 
had  expected  ib.  She  knew  her  brother's  nature  and  con- 
stitution, how  quickly  any  unhappiness  or  anxiety  taxed 
his  not  too  strong  physique. 


282  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

"You  will  be  better  without  me,"  Christine  said  sadly. 
"I  will  have  my  tea  indoors." 

"Oh,  Primavera!"  Zita  said.     "Why  do  you  say  that?" 

"You  know  why,  Zita.  You  don't  need  telling.  Salva- 
tore  only  went  away  to  be  able  to  say  good-bye  to  me  for 
ever." 

"Primavera !     Pri-ma-vera !" 

"I  believe  you  knew  it,  Zita." 

Zita  turned  swiftly  to  Salvatore.  "Fratello  mio,  f ratello 
mio,  how  much  you  must  have  suffered  while  we  made 
dresses  and  talked  such  rubbish!  But  for  all  that  my  heart 
was  breaking,  all  the  time  I  was  suffering  with  you!" 

Salvatore's  eyes  met  Zita's.     He  Lad  not  been  mistaken. 

"He  is  so  trying,  Zita,"  Christine  said.  "He  says  noth- 
ing, nothing  at  all  of  what  is  to  be  done  or  of  what  he 
means  to  do." 

"I  am  going  to  leave  you,"  Salvatore  said  abruptly, 
"because  I  am  not  strong  enough  to  stay !" 

"You  are  going  away?"  both  girls  cried  out  at  once. 

"Yes.  I  have  engaged  a  man  from  Cook's  office  to  take 
both  of  you  back  to  Ischia.  I  shall  meet  Zita  in  Naples ; 
he  will  bring  her  there  to  me." 

"Then  it  is  all  over,"  Christine  said.  Her  mouth  sud- 
denly became  dry  and  parched;  she  could  only  speak  with 
difficulty. 

"It  must  be,"  he  said.  "It  is  best  that  you  should  think 
me  heartless.  Anything  is  easier  to  bear  than  your 
love." 

"Zita,  I  have  just  told  Salvatore  that  I  will  willingly 
and  gladly  become  his  mistress  if  he  can't  think  of  me  as 
his  wife."  A  sob  broke  her  dry  throat.  "I  have  had  no 
very  good  reason  to  feel  proud  of  the  word  'wife,'  have  I? 
Let  him  call  me  by  any  name  he  chooses,  his  love  will  re- 
main equally  dear  to  me." 

She  turned  to  leave  them,  while  Salvatore  and  Zita  stood 
together,  hating  themselves  for  hurting  her  and  despising 
themselves  for  the  very  act  which  they  were  torturing 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  283 

themselves  to  perform.  They  felt  like  cowards  and  de- 
faulters. 

When  Christine  had  gone  a  few  steps  along  the  terrace, 
she  turned  suddenly  and  said  to  them,  "I  shall  go  back  to 
Ischia  alone.  It  is  absurd  to  think  that  I  require  any  com- 
panion or  man  from  Cook's." 

"I  can't  allow  it,"  Salvatore  said. 

"You  have  just  renounced  the  right  to  say  that."  She 
looked  at  him  very  searchingly.  "If  you  really  mean  all 
this,  Salvatore,  I  shall  go  away  to-morrow.  I  shall  go  back 
to  the  old  life  in  Ischia.  The  sooner  this  is  a  thing  of  the 
past  the  better  it  will  be  for  us  both.  Tell  me,  do  you 
mean  it?" 

"Yes,  I  mean  it.    Our  marriage  is  impossible." 

"Then  good-bye,"  she  said  softly.  "And  please  don't 
try  to  see  me  again,  for  I  too  must  be  strong." 

Zita  sprang  after  her.  "Cara  Primavera,  let  me  come 
with  you.  Let  me  try  to  comfort  you." 

Christine  looked  at  her  affectionately.  "No-one  can 
comfort  me,  Zita.  I  have  suffered  so  much,  I  can  suffer 
again.  I  am  not  like  Salvatore — unhappiness  won't  kill 
me.  It  only  makes  me  a  hard  fighter.  Now  leave  me," 
she  said  sternly,  "and  go  back  to  Salvatore." 

When  Zita  returned  to  Salvatore  he  was  still  seated  as 
she  had  left  him,  in  a  large  basket  chair  near  the  wall  of 
the  terrace,  his  head  buried  in  his  hands,  his  tired  body 
shrunk  into  something  pathetically  delicate  and  inert. 
She  sat  down  on  the  wall  beside  him ;  her  presence  was  all 
she  could  offer  him,  her  silent,  sympathetic  presence. 

They  had  each  other.  Christine  had  no-one.  They  had, 
be.sides,  all  which  they  had  so  much  enjoyed  before  she  had 
re-entered  their  lives — they  had  health,  wealth  and  youth. 
The  world  was  their  playground ;  they  could  do  what  they 
wished  and  go  where  they  wished. 

And  yet  they  had  nothing.  Now  there  seemed  to  Salva- 
tore no  meaning  in  any  of  the  things  which  had  once  filled 


284  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

his  days.  It  was  wonderfully  strange  to  him  now  that 
these  things  had  ever  meant  so  much  to  him,  that  they  had 
kept  him  so  interested  and  occupied  that  ten  years 
had  passed  over  his  head  and  left  him  still  in  love 
with  the  first  girl  who  had  ever  made  his  pulses  beat 
quickly. 

Christine's  personality  had  remained  with  him  like  a 
light  perpetually  burning  before  a  sacred  shrine ;  its  flame 
had  grown  larger  and  larger  until  it  had  lighted  up  the 
whole  temple  of  his  soul. 

Would  its  flame  still  light  up  the  sanctuary  of  his  soul 
if  he  accepted  her  offer  and  went  through  a  ceremony  of 
mock  marriage  with  her?  That  was  the  question.  Rather 
than  be  faithless  to  his  ideal  of  her  and  put  out  the  flame 
of  the  sacred  lamp,  he  would  renounce  the  living  vital 
woman.  He  was  a  Mazzini;  whether  he  would  or  not  he 
must  remain  faithful  to  his  ideal.  The  woman  he  loved 
and  had  loved  for  ten  years  was  the  soul-woman.  The 
little  lamp  which  had  kept  his  manhood  pure,  which  had 
been  his  inner  strength  during  his  ten  years  of  prosperity 
and  adulation,  could  not  burn  before  a  desecrated  altar. 
How  desolate  his  life  would  be  without  that  little  lamp! 
How  incomplete  his  poor  aittempt  to  satisfy  his  hunger 
for  the  woman! 

"What  can  we  do  for  her,  Salvatore?"  Zita  said  at 
last. 

"Nothing,  nothing,"  he  said.  "In  suffering  we  are  al- 
ways alone,  bambina." 

"We  have  so  much     .     .     .     money,  I  mean." 

"Poverty  means  nothing.     To  me  wealth  is  a  mockery.'* 

"I  know.     And  yet     .     .     ."     Zita  paused.     "And  yet 

5» 

•     •     • 

"Work  will  give  her  less  time  to  think.  Thoughts  can 
kill;  poverty  seldom  does.  Remember,  Poverty  is  the 
Child  of  Our  Lady." 

"It  seems  so  terrible.  If  you  married  her,  she  would 
foiave  been  so  wealthy.  Now  she  has  to  go  back." 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  285 

"If  we  married,"  lie  said,  "  it  could  only  have  meant 
happiness  for  a  short  time." 

"I  know,  Salvatore  mio.  I  knew  it  while  you  seemed  not 
to  know  it.  I  was  so  afraid  for  you.  If  we  could  only  take 
up  our  old  life  again!  We  were  so  happy." 

"There  is  no  use  trying  to  do  that,"  he  said  quickly. 
"A  shattered  jar  can  never  go  to  the  well  again." 

"Veramente.     But  what  are  we  to  do?     Tell  me  that." 

Salvatore  clasped  her  hand  tightly.  "First  let  me  rest, 
little  sister.  I  am  so  tired.  To-morrow  we  will  think ;  we 
will  begin  to  reconstruct  our  lives,  you  and  I." 

"Si,  si,  domani,  domani!     To-morrow,  to-morrow!" 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THERE  is  an  old  saying  that  to-morrow  never  comes. 
Nevertheless,  on  the  morrow  of  the  day  on  which  Salvatore 
had  come  back  to  Girgenti  to  renounce  Christine,  Zita  was 
seated  all  alone  in  the  ponderously  furnished  salon  of  the 
albergo. 

She  was  thinking  and  thinking  and  trying  to  devise  some 
new  means  of  arousing  Salvatore.  When  he  had  sufficiently 
recovered  and  rested  from  the  strain  of  parting  with  Chris- 
tine, what  on  earth  could  she  suggest  that  he  should  do  ? 

An  almost  complete  relapse  had  followed  upon  his  fare- 
well scene  with  Christine,  which  had  taken  place  at  dawn. 
She  had  gone  by  the  first  train  to  Palermo,  crossing  by 
the  night  boat  to  Naples,  and  thence  to  Ischia. 

Zita  knew  so  well  that  but  for  her  own  sake  Salvatore 
would  gladly  slip  out  and  be  done  with  the  struggle.  He 
was  so  shattered  and  broken  that  for  the  present  nothing 
which  she  might  suggest  would  appear  anything  but  a 
toil  and  a  needless  effort. 

Her  own  world  was,  of  course,  saddened  and  completely 
changed  because  of  Salvatore's  wretchedness.  Much  as 


286  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

she  loved  Christine  and  deplored  her  loss  as  a  sister,  it 
was  through  Salvatore  and  his  suffering  that  her  real 
anguish  came.  With  her  anguish  had  come  an  unacknowl- 
edged longing  to  return  to  America.  Waldo  Langbridge's 
silent,  and  what  seemed  to  her  now  very  comforting  and 
restful  personality,  would  be  helpful  and  so  good  for  Sal- 
vatore. In  America  they  had  been  excellent  friends.  She 
wondered  what  he  would  say  of  Salvatore's  decision?  Of 
course,  he  would  approve  of  his  doing  what  he  thought 
was  right,  but  would  he  understand  Salvatore's  point  of 
view  any  better  than  Christine  did?  Did  the  Anglo-Saxon 
mind  ever  really  meet  the  Latin  on  its  own  plane?  Prob- 
ably not,  but  anyhow  it  would  be  comforting  to  discuss 
things  with  him.  They  had  discussed  so  many  things 
together. 

While  Zita's  thoughts  were  centred  on  Waldo  Lang- 
bridge,  Sardo  Fontana  was  shown  into  the  room.  Zita 
smiled  as  she  'held  out  her  hands ;  her  eyes  welcomed  him. 

"Come  sta,  Signorina  ?"  he  said  wonderingly ;  her  frank 
avowal  that  his  coming  pleased  her  was  a  pleasant  sur- 
prise. He  held  her  two  hands  eagerly  as  he  said,  "Amabile 
Signorina,  I  came  to  tell  you  something.  ...  I  should 
not  have  again  intruded." 

"Si,  si,  dimmi.  Salvatore  is  ill;  he  is  in  bed.  I  am 
very  troubled.  I  hope  it  is  not  bad  news,  amico  mio?" 

"Keep  him  in  bed,"  he  said  quickly.  "He  is  safe  there. 
The  Count  is  in  Girgenti;  he  is  waiting  for  him  outside 
the  hotel.  Where  is  the  Signora?" 

"Christine  has  gone,"  Zita  said.  "They  have  parted. 
Happiness  seems  very  far  away." 

"Donna  mia,  donna  mia,  they  have  quarrelled?  But  do 
not  despair;  with  lovers  partings  are  but  re-unitings." 

"No,  no.  They  love  each  other  more  than  ever.  Poor 
Primavera!  Poor  Salvatore!" 

"Has  he  renounced  her?  He  will  not  marry  her  without 
the  blessing  of  his  Church?" 

"He  loves  her  too  devoutly." 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  287 

Sardo  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Oh,  don't!"  Zita  said  imploringly.  "He  has  fought 
and  struggled  so  hard.  He  has  loved  her  for  all  these 
years !  Think  of  what  it  means  to  him !" 

"I  don't  understand  him." 

"You  respect  him!" 

"Veramente."     The  one  word  was  burdened  with  truth. 

"Thank  you  for  that  one  word.  Spiritually  Salvatore 
is  very  strong,  but  physically  he  .  .  ."  Zita  left  her 
sentence  unfinished.  "I  have  always  had  to  take  great 
care  of  him.  In  his  youth  he  fed  his  brains  and  starved  his 
body."  Zita  spoke  simply  and  tenderly,  as  she  always  did 
about  their  early  days  of  poverty.  "Youth  needs  good 
food  when  it  works  very  hard,  amico  mio." 

Sardo's  cry  made  her  regret  her  words. 

"Caro  amico,  they  were  happy  days!  But  tell  me 
what  you  have  heard  of  the  Count." 

"While  he  is  here  in  Girgenti  Salvatore  is  safer  in  bed." 

"He  cannot  always  stay  there." 

"Something  may  happen  before  he  is  up  and  about. 
The  Count  may  think  he  has  left  the  town.  Anyhow,  for 
the  present,  will  you  stay  with  him?  Don't  leave  the 
albergo." 

"Do  you  really  think  he  would  harm  Salvatore?" 

"He  has  not  forgotten  his  throttling ;  he  will  always  be 
your  brother's  enemy." 

"Oh,  if  only  he  were  dead !  If  things  could  be  as  they 
were  one  short  week  ago !  Why  is  he  allowed  to  live  ?" 

Before  Sardo  could  answer  her  the  door  opened.  It 
was  the  padrona. 

"Will  you  go  to  the  Cavaliere,  Signorina?  I  think  he 
is  worse — my  husband  has  gone  for  the  doctor." 

Zita's  face  blanched ;  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "I  must 
go,  she  said.  "He  has  so  little  strength  to  fight  against 
both  fever  and  unhappiness." 

Sardo  Fontana  put  his  arms  round  her  and  gathered 
her  to  his  breast.  At  last  their  two  hearts  were  beating 


288  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

together.     Zita  made  no  struggle;  his  physical  support 
and  sympathy  were  necessary  to  her  at  the  moment. 

"Caro  amico,  caro  amico,"  she  said,  "I  know  you  would 

help   me  if  you   could.      You   are   so  good     ...      so 
» 

He  interrupted  her.  "Go  to  him,"  he  said.  "And  thank 
God  I  have  held  you  in  my  arms !"  He  released  her.  "I 
am  going  to  help  you,  Signorina;  I  am  going  to  prove 
myself  worthy  of  your  gratitude." 

Before  he  had  finished  speaking  Zita  had  fled  from  the 
room.  When  he  found  himself  alone  and  returned  to 
earth,  he  said  to  himself,  "There  is  only  one  way  and  I 
must  take  it.  The  Mazzinis  are  immovable ;  Salvatore  will 
die  rather  than  act  contrary  to  his  conscience  or  sacrifice 
his  ideal.  Well,  if  to  prove  my  love  I  too  have  to  die, 
death  will  be  preferable  to  life  without  her,  without  her 
love." 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

SOME  days  later  Zita  received  a  letter  from  Waldo  Lang- 
bridge.  It  was  written  from  the  Carlton  Hotel  in  London. 

With  the  open  letter  in  her  hand  she  went  nervously  to 
Salvatore's  room.  His  temperature  was  at  last  almost 
normal,  and  although  he  was  still  very  weak,  he  was  in  a 
convalescent  state.  When  Zita  entered  the  room  he  laid 
down  the  book  which  he  had  been  trying  to  read. 

"Look,  Salvatore,"  she  said,  "read  that."  She  laid  the 
letter  over  his  book.  "Read  that  and  tell  me  if  you  would 
like  him  to  come,  if  you  feel  strong  enough  for  a  visitor." 

Zita  tried  to  conceal  her  nervousness.  She  felt  almost 
humiliated,  for  her  letters  to  Waldo  must  have  betrayed 
more  than  she  had  imagined  of  her  true  feelings  for  him. 
He  had  been  in  England  for  four  months,  but  she  knew 
that  he  would  not  have  written  to  her  as  he  had  done  if 
her  letters  to  him  had  not,  so  to  speak,  given  her  away. 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  289 

Salvatore  read  the  letter  in  silence.  When  he  had  fin- 
ished it  he  folded  it  up  and  held  it  out  to  his  sister.  Zita 
took  both  the  letter  and  her  brother's  hands  eagerly  in  her 
own.  Unfortunately  the  unspoken  language  of  Sicily 
cannot  be  written.  She  slipped  down  on  her  knees  and 
buried  her  face  in  the  clothes.  Salvatore  felt  her  emotion. 

"I  am  quite  strong  enough,  bambina,"  he  said,  "if  you 
are."  His  hand  caressed  her  head.  "Have  you  thought 
this  well  over?" 

Great  eyes  were  raised  to  his.  She  knew  what  he  meant. 
This  might  mean  the  reconstructing  of  her  life.  Salva- 
tore's  words  came  back  to  her.  Was  she  strong  enough 
to  decide?  Could  she  ever  be  as  happy  with  any  other 
man  as  with  Salvatore? 

"Are  you  strong  enough?"  he  asked  again.  "Do  you 
know  your  own  mind?  If  you  don't,  for  pity's  sake  be 
definite !  Don't  play  any  longer  with  a  strong  man's  feel- 
ings. Don't  be  feline." 

Zita's  eyes  questioned  him. 

"I  wonder  if  you  will  ever  know  what  love  means,  sorella 
mia?  You  have  one  man's  devotion  and  attention  here — 
isn't  that  sufficient?  If  you  don't  really  want  Waldo, 
leave  him  alone."  He  paused.  "Women  are  so  different," 
he  said  languidly,  "so  utterly  different." 

"But,  Salvatore    .     .     ." 

"No  'buts,' "  he  said  sharply.  "The  time  has  come 
when  you  must  stop  playing  with  men's  hearts.  Tell 
Waldo  not  to  come;  tell  him  I  am  not  strong  enough,  not 
nearly  strong  enough." 

Zita  was  silent.  Her  brother  was  talking  to,  her  as  he 
sometimes  used  to  talk  in  the  days  when  the  difference  in 
their  ages  had  been  more  apparent. 

"Go  and  tell  him  that,"  he  said.  "There  must  be  no 
half  measures — a  man's  love  knows  none." 

Zita  rose  impetuously  from  her  knees.  "Very  well,  I 
will  write  to  him  at  once.  And  you  are  right!"  she  said 
hotly.  "Women  are  different.  Men  are  always  sure! 


290  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

When  they  care  for  a  woman  they  want  everything  from 
her ;  a  woman  only  knows  that  she  wants  the  man  to  want 
everything."  She  paused.  "I  believe  women  only  marry 
because  they  are  afraid  that  the  man  who  wants  them  will 
marry  someone  else  if  they  don't.  Girls  do,  anyhow." 

"That  is  a  fact,"  Salvatore  said.  "But  you've  played 
long  enough  with  Waldo.  He  has  loved  you  ever  since 
that  night  ten  years  ago  .  .  ."  Salvatore's  eyes  fell. 

"Yes,  I  believe  he  has.  And  oh,  Salvatore,  what  ages 
ago  all  that  seems !  And  yet  I  can  see  you  standing  at  the 
table  with  his  father,  while  Waldo  questioned  me,  just  as 
clearly  as  if  it  had  only  happened  yesterday." 

Salvatore's  Jhand  went  up  to  his  eyes.  "Immortal 
moments  never  grow  dim,"  he  said.  "Go  and  write  your 
letter.  Tell  him  that  we  are  leaving  Sicily,  and  don't  add 
any  tender  memories." 

As  Zita  was  leaving  the  room  he  called  her  back. 

"What  is  going  to  happen  to  Sardo?"  he  said.  "What 
does  refusing  Waldo  mean?" 

Zita  looked  confused.  She  was  ashamed  of  herself.  She 
ought  not  to  have  allowed  Sardo  to  caress  her;  it  had  been 
on  her  conscience  ever  since.  But  at  the  moment  her 
senses  had  demanded  physical  sympathy. 

"What  is  going  to  be  the  end  of  Sardo?"  Salvatore 
said  again.  "You  are  finishing  off  Waldo;  don't  be  less 
merciful  to  Sardo."  Salvatore's  own  hunger  for  Christine 
made  him  keenly  sympathetic.  "What  is  to  be  the  end  of 
Sardo?  I  want  to  know.  You  can't  mean  to  marry  him?" 

Zita  tried  to  laugh.  "You  are  so  serious,  Salvatore. 
Heaven  only  knows  what  is  going  to  be  the  end  of  Sardo, 
and  it  won't  tell.  I  do  wish  men  would  realise  that  half  a 
loaf  is  better  than  no  bread  at  all." 

"Which  means  that  you  want  to  go  on  playing  the 
same  selfish  game." 

"It  means  that  I  hate  dismissing  nice  men  for  good  and 
all,  and  yet  I  can't  marry  Sardo  .  .  .  you  know  I 
can't." 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  291 

"Then  what  is  going  to  be  the  end  of  him?  Remember, 
he  is  a  Sicilian,  not  an  American." 

"I  told  you  before,  fratello  mio,  only  Heaven  knows 
what  is  to  be  the  end  of  him  and  it  won't  tell.  Che  sara 
sara."  Zita  spoke  with  assumed  lightness.  "In  the  mean- 
time, don't  you  think  that  the  dismissal  of  one  lover  and 
good  comrade  sufficient  for  this  morning?  I  am  to  say 
that  you  are  not  strong  enough — is  that  it?" 

"Yes,  not  nearly  strong  enough,"  Salvatore  said  firmly. 
"Tell  him  that  I  never  shall  be  strong  enough."  Having 
said  these  words,  almost  brutally,  he  pulled  the  bedclothes 
over  his  head  and  turned  his  face  to  the  wall. 

Downstairs  in  the  great  salon  of  the  hotel  Zita  wrote  her 
letter.  It  was  very  definite  and  to  the  point.  It  left  no 
doubt  in  Waldo  Langbridge's  mind  when  he  read  it. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

A  TRAGEDY  had  fallen  on  Girgenti. 

What  exactly  happened  no-one  will  ever  know,  for  in 
Sicily  on  such  occasions  no-one  is  ever  looking.  Omerta 
forbids  it. 

From  apparently  nowhere  and  for  no  known  reason  the 
tragedy  had  hurled  itself  like  a  thunderbolt  upon  the  Arca- 
dian scene.  Zita  was  reading  aloud  to  Salvatore  on  the 
terrace  of  the  hotel  when  the  excitement  began.  At  first 
she  paid  no  attention  to  the  uproar,  for  if  the  saying  is 
true  that  one  woman  and  a  goose  can  make  a  market,  it  is 
equally  true  that  in  Sicily  it  takes  but  two  excited  men 
to  make  a  tumult. 

But  the  cries  which  came  up  from  the  road  below  drowned 
her  voice.  She  put  down  her  book.  "I  must  go  and  see 
what  it  is  all  about,"  she  said.  "Listen! — Can  you  hear 
what  they  are  saying?" 


292  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

Salvatore  shook  his  head.  "It's  sure  to  be  much  ado 
about  nothing,  or  a  pickpocket  caught  in  the  act — the 
people  love  that!" 

Zita  rose  from  her  chair.  "It  must  be  more  than  that," 
she  said.  She  leaned  over  the  terrace  wall  to  look. 

A  procession  of  men  and  women,  field-workers  and 
country  folk  who  had  been  either  going  to  or  from  the 
town,  were  following  a  party  of  men  who  were  carrying 
someone  on  an  improvised  stretcher.  Sobbing  women  had 
flung  their  aprons  over  their  faces,  while  others  were  walk- 
ing with  their  arms  thrown  up  to  the  heavens.  Their  cries 
and  long  wails  were  Biblical  and  Eastern. 

Two  soldiers  carrying  a  camp-oven-pot  brought  up  the 
rear;  they  happened  to  be  taking  a  picket  their  evening 
meal.  A  third  soldier  wearing  a  scarlet  fez  on  his  dark 
head  was  carrying  a  huge  iron  spoon.  The  steaming 
soup  struck  Zita  at  the  moment  as  cruelly  sardonic,  for 
whoever  it  was  who  was  lying  so  straight  and  still  was 
either  dead  or  dying.  Truly  in  the  midst  of  life  there  is 
death. 

"What  is  it  all  about?"  Salvatore  called  out,  with  the 
irritability  of  the  convalescent. 

Zita  shook  her  head.  "I  don't  know.  I  think  someone 
has  been  killed — they  are  coming  up  the  road — they  will 
pass  the  hotel  door." 

As  she  spoke,  the  soldier  with  the  iron  spoon  looked  up. 
A  woman's  soft  voice  was  more  to  him  than  a  dead  man. 
He  had  fought  in  the  Tripoli  war. 

"What  has  happened?"  Zita  called  out.  "Has  someone 
been  injured?" 

When  the  man's  senses  had  enjoyed  her  beauty,  he 
answered, 

"E  morto,  Signorina,  e  morto,"  and  passed  on. 

Zita  called  over  her  shoulder  to  her  brother,  "Someone  is 
dead,  someone  of  importance,  I  imagine."  She  looked 
down  again  at  the  crowd  below.  "How  eloquent  we 
Sicilians  are!"  she  said  to  herself.  "Imagine  a  crowd  in 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  293 

America  saying  all  these  fine  things  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment !" 

She  listened  more  acutely.  Then  her  ears  caught  the 
cries  of:  "Povero  orfano!  Povero  orfano!" 

The  words  chilled  her.  A  cold  hand  clutched  at  her 
heart.  She  hurried  to  Salvatore's  side.  He  noticed  her 
haunted  face. 

"Shall  we  go  round  to  the  door  and  find  out  what  has 
happened?"  Her  words  came  brokenly. 

Salvatore  dropped  the  thick  rug  which  had  covered  his 
legs  and  followed  her  across  the  terrace,  through  the  big 
salon  and  down  the  old  tiled  passages  until  they  reached 
the  door.  Never  before  had  the  hotel  seemed  to  Zita  so  big 
and  straggling. 

As  they  approached  the  front  door  the  padrona  di  casa 
and  her  heavy  husband  hurried  to  meet  them.  The  illus- 
trious cavaliere  had  not  walked  so  far  since  his  illness.  He 
still  looked  alarmingly  fragile  and  extremely  beautiful,  or 
so  the  woman  thought.  She  threw  up  her  hands  and  said: 

"Oh,  Signore,  what  a  fatality !  And  he  was  such  a  good 
father !  Who  will  now  take  the  same  care  of  his  little 
son?" 

As  Zita  looked  at  the  woman  her  horrible  dread  became  a 
certainty.  Her  heart  almost  suffocated  her.  She  could 
not  raise  her  voice  above  a  whisper. 

"And  he  was  so  handsome  and  generous,  with  a  heart  of 
pure  gold!" 

Zita  grasped  -the  woman's  arm  and  made  herself  speak. 
"Of  whom  are  you  talking?  Who  is  dead?  Tell  me." 

Her  super-senses  had  told  her  long  ago,  but  her  mate- 
rial self  must  hear  the  truth.  The  woman  seemed  to  have 
been  talking  for  hours. 

"Have  you  not  heard,  carina?  Signor  Fontana  has 
been  shot  through  the  lungs.  He  bled  to  death  down  at 
the  temples.  The  custodi  found  his  body  in  a  pool  of 
blood.  But  alas!"  she  said  vindictively,  "his  murderer 
has  escaped.* 


294  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

As  she  spoke  she  looked  searchingly  at  Zita.  She  knew 
that  the  dead  Signore  had  been  in  love  with  the  girl,  for 
he  had  brought  a  wealth  of  flowers  and  fruit  to  her  brother 
while  he  was  ill,  and  he  had  haunted  the  precincts  of  the 
hotel  for  many  days  past.  The  Signorina  did  not  know 
how  near  her  he  had  often  been. 

Zita  turned  to  Salvatore.  She  was  trembling ;  her  face 
was  stricken.  Sardo's  last  words  to  her  were  ringing  in 
her  ears.  But  Salvatore  had  left  her  to  seek  information. 

With  a  fine  effort  of  self-control  she  questioned  the 
woman.  Was  she  sure  that  Signor  Fontana  was  dead? 
Had  the  doctor  seen  him? 

The  woman  shook  her  head.  "Non  so,  Signorina,  non 
so — the  dead  tell  no  tales.  Ma!  sacra  Virgine,  he  could 
ill  be  spared!" 

Before  the  woman  had  finished  speaking  Salvatore  re- 
turned, with  a  face  as  white  and  stricken  as  Zita's.  At  the 
moment  they  were  as  like  each  other  as  two  peas  in  a  pod. 

With  the  ghost  of  the  dead  man  before  them  they  re- 
mained silent.  They  dared  not  give  voice  to  the  fear  which 
filled  their  hearts,  for  in  Sicily  silence  is  more  than  golden. 
They  did  not  join  in  the  general  cry  of  "Povero  Signore!" 
"Povero  Signore!"  Perhaps  the  emotion  of  the  rabble 
kept  them  tongue-tied.  This  was  not  the  first  occasion 
upon  which  they  had  found  themselves  separated  from  their 
people. 

But  if  their  lips  were  silent,  they  were  talking  eloquently 
to  each  other  in  the  ancient  soundless  language. 

"Did  you  see  him?"  she  said  at  length.  "Did  you 
manage  to  get  any  information?" 

"Nothing  at  all,"  he  said. 

Zita  took  his  arm  impulsively.  "Tell  me — I  want  to 
hear  you  say  so — you  don't  think  'he  killed  himself?  Oh, 
you  don't  think  that?"  Her  eyes  entreated. 

"No,  no.     We  know,  you  and  I    ...    we  know." 

"Yes,  we  know."  Her  eyes  fell  from  his.  Alas !  She 
knew  so  much  more  than  Salvatore,  so  much  more!  How 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  295 

horrible  it  was !  Sardo  was  dead  and  her  letter  had  gone 
to  Waldo.  It  made  her  feel  a  traitor  to  the  dead  man. 
Salvatore's  mistaken  interpretation  of  her  added  nervous- 
ness made  her  miserably  self-conscious. 

"What  can  we  do?"  she  said.  "What  can  we  do  for 
him?  These  people  are  kind,  but  you  and  I  meant  more 
to  him.  Only  you  and  I  understand.  We  can't  leave  him 
to  them — we  ought  to  be  with  his  poor  bleeding  body." 

"We  can't  do  anything,  carina,"  he  said  slowly.  "It's 
best  to  let  these  good  people  manage  things  in  their  own 
way.  And,  after  all,  he  was  one  of  them.  He  was  a  true 
Sicilian  at  heart;  only  the  outer  man  was  changed." 

Zita  looked  at  her  brother.  He  was  speaking  in  an 
exaggeratedly  unemotional  way.  From  the  moment  that 
the  woman  had  told  them  that  Sardo  was  dead,  Salvatore's 
eyes  had  forbidden  her  to  say  one  word  about  Christine. 
That  was  the  last  word  which  must  pass  her  lips.  Yet  all 
the  time  her  super-senses  knew  that  Salvatore  was  speak- 
ing to  her  in  these  cold  even  tones  because  he  was  trying 
to  suffocate  the  clear  voice  which  was  telling  him  that  as 
yet  all  the  tragedy  was  not  known.  Sardo  had  met  his 
death  in  trying  to  liberate  Christine;  but  where  was  the 
Count? 

Zita  made  no  protest  about  not  following  the  stretcher- 
bearers.  Perhaps  her  brother  was  right. 

"We  can  be  nearer  Sardo  on  the  terrace,  bambina,"  he 
said  gently.  "Let  us  go  back.  What  they  are  following 
does  not  matter." 

Zita  pressed  his  arm  more  closely  to  her  as  she  said, 
"Let  us  go  back!  Oh,  Salvatore,"  she  said  impulsively, 
"Sicily  is  here!  Is  there  any  New  York  anywhere  in  the 
world?" 

"Si,  si,  Sicily  is  here,"  he  said  gravely,  "and  you  and  I 
are  her  children." 

It  would  have  seemed  cold-blooded  and  callous  just  to 
return  to  the  quiet  terrace  if  they  had  not  known  that 
Sardo  would  have  wished  it,  that  the  last  thing  he  would 


296  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

have  desired  was  that  Zita's  name  should  be  mixed  up  in 
the  tragedy.  Sicily  is  nourished  on  secrecy;  it  was  their 
duty  to  regard  the  dead  man's  secret  as  theirs. 

Just  as  they  were  leaving  the  hotel  door  a  blood-curdling 
cry  rang  out.  A  fresh  excitement  had  sprung  up. 

Zita  remained  rooted  to  the  spot.  Her  super-senses  in- 
stantly told  her  what  the  cry  meant — that  the  second  act 
in  the  tragedy  had  begun. 

At  the  same  moment  a  light  victoria  dashed  up  to  the 
hotel  door.  In  it  was  the  guardian  of  the  temples.  He 
had  flung  the  news  to  the  gossips  and  idlers  who  had  not 
followed  the  stretcher-bearers.  He  had  told  them  that  the 
hated  Croat  was  dead.  The  seducer  of  virgins,  the  re- 
ceiver of  stolen  goods,  the  traitor  to  Italy,  had  been  found 
dead  at  the  foot  of  the  precipice  rock  which  forms  a 
platform  for  the  Temple  of  Juno. 

"Corpo  di  Bacco!  But  he  is  better  dead!"  was  the  oft- 
repeated  verdict.  The  only  thing  to  grieve  about  was  that 
Girgenti  was  rid  of  a  bad  Croat  at  the  expense  of  a  good 
Sicilian. 

Every  town  as  well  as  country  has  its  own  code  of 
morals,  what  is  forgivable  and  what  is  unforgivable.  In 
Rome  you  must  still  do  as  Rome  does  if  you  wish  to  be 
accepted  of  her  people — which  means,  if  you  must  sin, 
sin  as  Rome  sins,  or  do  not  sin  at  all.  To  sin  in  any  other 
way  is  worse  than  a  sin — -it  is  bad  form.  And  so  it  is  in 
Girgenti. 

The  Croat  was  better  dead.  Things  were  known  to  the 
citizens  which  made  'his  sins  unforgivable.  No-one  said 
"Povero  Signore!"  "Povero  Signore!"  Even  the  women 
did  not  weep.  The  gossips  and  the  dawdlers  who  had 
come  in  for  the  second  tragedy  followed  the  guardian  of 
the  temples  on  his  important  mission  to  the  police-station, 
and  very  soon  a  stillness  had  fallen  on  the  Albergo,  a  still- 
ness which  to  the  brother  and  sister  was  burdened  with  the 
soul  of  the  tragedy. 

Before  they  returned  to  the  terrace,  Zita  said  to  Salva- 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  297 

tore,  "Come  into  the  house  first  and  put  on  your  coat  and 
have  some  vermouth." 

She  had  spoken  mechanically.  Salvatore  obeyed  her 
mechanically. 

When  he  put  the  little  glass  back  on  the  brass  tray  their 
eyes  met.  Salvatore's  were  even  more  forbidding  than 
they  had  been.  Zita  was  not  to  let  that  name  pass  her 
lips. 

It  was  not  to  Zita,  but  to  the  wide  heavens  and  the 
classic  land  which  lay  before  them  that  Salvatore  said, 
"Truly  greater  love  hath  no  man." 

Zita's  cry  stopped  him.  "Oh,  Salvatore,  say  something! 
Even  if  we  mustn't  speak  .  .  .  the  truth !  Surely  you 
know  that  my  heart  is  bursting?  Can't  you  say  some- 
thing to  make  me  feel  less  like  a  murderess?" 

"You  could  give  him  nothing  to  live  for." 

Zita's  quick  answer  stopped  him.  Her  eyes  held  his. 
"Tell  me,  could  you,  if  you  tried,  not  love?  To  love  at 
command  is  no  easier  than  not  to  love." 

"I  am  a  Mazzini.  With  us  it  is  different."  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders.  "You  loved  no-one  else,  your  love  was 
not  .  .  ." 

Zita  turned  abruptly  away ;  she  interrupted  impatiently : 
"You  forget  that  I,  too,  am  a  Mazzini!  I,  too,  can  be 
faithful  to  an  ideal." 

"Sardo  did  not  fill  it?" 

"He  only  fulfilled  the  ideal  of  a  Sicilian  girl;  the  new 
Zita  .  .  .  Well,"  she  said  hotly,  "Sardo  never  blamed 
me.  And  am  I  to  blame?  Life  is  always  changing;  we 
change  with  it." 

"These  things  are  beyond  us ;  they  are  not  in  our  hands. 
I  don't  blame  you,  sorella  mia." 

As  they  paced  the  terrace  restlessly,  their  talk  came  in 
snatches,  mere  fragments  of  their  thoughts. 

"He  knew  that  I  loved  you  better  than  anything  in  the 
world,  Salvatore.  He  knew  what  your  happiness  meant  to 
me.  That  is  the  meaning  of  everything." 


298  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

Salvatore's  unseeing  eyes  were  following  the  flight  of  a 
falcon;  he  did  not  answer. 

"He  might  have  hesitated,"  Zita  went  on,  "if  Carlito's 
case  had  been  less'hopeless.  He  knew  the  Count's  reputa- 
tion as  a  shot." 

"Is  Carlito  really  doomed?" 

"The  doctor  gives  him  six  months,  not  more.  He  was 
born  of  a  consumptive  mother;  it  is  in  his  bones." 

"Do  you  think  they  met  by  appointment?  They  were 
obviously  both  armed." 

"No,  no.  Let  Girgenti  think  they  did,  let  Sardo's 
secret  be  buried  with  his  bones.  No-one  has  the  slightest 
suspicion;  only  you  and  I  know  the  real  story." 

"And  it  was?"  Salvatore's  voice  was  hollow  and 
grating. 

"He  loved  me  so  much  that  he  wished  to  bring  me  happi- 
ness through  his  gift  to  you.  The  man  who  blocked  your 
path  was  better  dead.  You  know,  life  is  still  held  very 
cheaply  in  Sicily,  when  it  is  without  hope.  Sardo  took  the 
sporting  chance."  Zita  shivered.  "If  he  had  lived  and 
the  Count  had  died.  .  .  ." 

"My  God!"  Salvatore  said.  "Don't  say  it,  don't  say 
it!  At  Licata  I  should  have  killed  the  traitor!" 

"And  in  doing  so  have  broken  two  women's  hearts !" 

Salvatore  covered  his  face  with  his  hands;  his  frail 
body  shook. 

"Remember,"  Zita  said,  "Sardo  made  this  sacrifice  for 
me,  not  for  you.  It  was  his  saci-ament  to  love." 

"Sacra  Virgine!  And  would  you  have  me  walk  over  his 
dead  body  to  embrace  the  woman  I  love?" 

"Love  was  such  a  very  simple  and  definite  thing  to 
Sardo,  that  I  feel  sure  that  if  he  could  speak  to  you  now 
he  would  beg  you  to  accept  with  gratitude  the  gift  he  has 
bestowed  on  you.  He  would  not  understand  you  if  you 
refuse  it.  La  Primavera  was  to  be  yours  because  I  could 
not  be  his ;  the  whole  thing  rests  on  me."  She  spoke 
calmly  and  firmly.  She  was  so  afraid  that  the  excitement 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  299 

and  tragedy  of  the  evening  would  bring  on  another  attack 
of  fever  that  she  almost  succeeded  in  subduing  her  own 
feelings.  Her  anxiety  to  comfort  and  relieve  her  brother 
helped  to  calm  her  own  nerves. 

Salvatore  did  not  answer  her.  He  had  flung  himself 
down  on  a  long  chair;  he  felt  so  physically  and  mentally 
exhausted  that  he  only  wished  to  lie  like  a  log,  completely 
outside  the  realm  of  thought. 

It  was  pelasant  to  rest  under  the  ever-deepening  violet 
sky  and  wait  for  the  coming  stars.  In  his  highly-strung 
condition  his  ears  were  tuned  to  the  very  finest  sounds ;  he 
could  distinguish  unconsciously  the  diiference  between  the 
quick  patter-patter  of  the  small  donkeys  and  the  longer 
strides  and  heavier  tread  of  the  mules'  feet  on  the  road 
below.  The  cries  of  the  homing  rooks  and  the  helpless 
pleading  of  the  little  kids  were  not  sounds ;  they  were  only 
a  part  of  the  evening. 

His  only  consciousness  was  the  desire  to  keep  back 
thought,  to  keep  the  door  of  his  mind  tightly  closed.  For 
with  thought  came  questions  which  hurt  his  tired  head 
and  exhausted  his  feeble  body. 

Even  Zita's  silent  presence  became  a  burden,  for  her 
thoughts  were  affecting  his.  She  was  going  over  and 
over  their  old  life  in  Casa  Salvatore;  her  first  meeting 
with  Sardo  and  her  horrible  scene  with  the  Count;  and 
lastly  Sardo's  body,  bleeding  to  death  amongst  the 
asphodels. 

Like  film  pictures  these  things  were  passing  before  her 
eyes.  The  screen  on  which  they  were  presented  was  Sicily, 
which  lay  stretched  out  beyond  the  high  terrace. 

And  so  the  time  passed,  as  time  ever  does  pass,  like 
water  through  the  hands  of  Sicily's  children.  Suddenly 
the  silence  was  broken,  and  for  a  moment  their  minds 
were  torn  from  the  past  and  focussed  on  the  material 
present.  It  was  the  voice  of  Giulio  Romano. 

"II  pranzo  e  pronte,  Signore."  He  said  the  words  with 
suitable  solemnity. 


300  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

Dragged  back  to  the  routine  of  the  day,  Zita  thanked 
him  and  said  mechanically,  "The  dinner  is  ready,  Salva- 
tore." 

Giulio  Romano  left  the  terrace  and  returned  to  the 
dining-room,  where  he  held  his  soul  in  patience  for  twenty 
minutes.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  he  employed  his  idle 
hands  in  slipping  on  to  cheap  Sicilian  cigars  the  gold 
bands  which  had  been  carefully  removed  from  expensive 
Manilla  ones. 

In  Sicily  the  devil  never  misses  'his  chance. 

Darkness  had  fallen  on  the  southern  landscape  before 
the  brother  and  sister  left  the  terrace.  It  was  only  when 
the  cathedral  bell  boomed  through  the  stillness  that  Zita 
rose  determinedly  from  her  chair. 

"It  is  quite  dark,  and  so  cold,  Salvatore.  Do  come  in. 
I  suppose  we  must  eat  our  dinner  and  go  to  bed  as  usual. 
And  of  course  it  will  be  boiled  mullet,  and  of  course  it  will 
be  decorated  with  marguerites  and  pink  begonias,  and  of 
course  Giulio  Romano  will  offer  it  to  us  as  if  we  had  never 
eaten  one  before." 

As  they  rose  from  their  chairs  she  looked  towards  the 
temples.  "To-day  is  over.  Salvatore,  to-morrow  this  will 
be  yesterday." 

Salvatore  knew  what  she  meant.  To-day  Sardo  had 
been  one  with  the  living;  to-morrow  he  would  be  one  with 
the  dead.  To-morrow  would  not  know  him.  Thus  quickly 
do  the  sands  of  time  slip  through  the  hour-glass. 

Giulio  Romano  hurried  forward  to  receive  his  guests, 
and  when  they  were  seated  at  table  he  appeared  at  Zita's 
side  with  a  long  boat-shaped  dish  in  his  hand.  In  it  lay 
a  grey  mullet  decorated  with  pink  begonias.  He  apolo- 
gised. The  fish  was  now  quite  cold,  and  it  had  been  pro- 
cured with  great  difficulty  as  a  treat  for  the  Signore. 
Delicate  fish  was  good  for  one  with  so  little  appetite. 

The  ghost  of  a  smile  lit  up  Zita's  face.  She  looked  at 
Salvatore;  his  eyes  too  held  a  kindly  smile. 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  301 

Fratello  mio,"  Zita  said,  "that  flower-decked  mullet  is 
as  typically  Sicilian  as  Sardo's  death." 

"Si,  si,"  he  said  gravely,  as  his  eyes  lingered  on  the 
long  grey  fish.  "Nostro  paese,  nostro  caro  paese,  nostro 
paese  immutabile,  nostro  paese  violente." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

ONE  month  later  Zita  was  playing  with  Carlito  on  the 
terrace  of  the  hotel.  The  child  had  lived  with  her  since 
his  father's  death  and  had  benefited  by  her  sound  com- 
monsense  and  vigilant  care.  He  was  clapping  his  hands 
with  delight  because  Zita's  steady  hand  had  placed  an 
Italian  flag  on  the  top  of  the  castle  which  he  had  built 
with  bricks,  when  the  padrona  ushered  a  visitor  out  on  to 
the  terrace. 

The  moment  Zita  caught  sight  of  the  man  who  was 
striding  across  the  terrace  to  reach  her,  she  became 
alarmed;  her  knees  trembled. 

Before  she  had  time  to  think  or  act  Waldo  Langb ridge 
had  gathered  her  up  in  his  arms.  Carlito's  castle  was 
scattered  to  the  four  winds.  Knowing  his  woman,  he  gave 
her  no  chance  to  escape.  She  had  laid  her  cards  on  the 
table;  there  must  now  be  no  revoking.  He  had  come  to 
demand  her  complete  surrender.  And  womanlike,  Zita 
enjoyed  his  method  of  wooing.  To  be  folded  in  protecting 
arms  and  kissed  into  forgetfulness  came  as  a  merciful 
healing  to  her  stricken  soul.  With  Waldo's  lips  on  hers 
and  her  heart  beating  against  his  breast,  her  old  fear 
that  she  did  not  know  whether  she  loved  him  sufficiently  to 
renounce  her  freedom  seemed  absurd.  Surely  she  never 
could  not  have  known? 

She  had  only  been  in  her  lover's  arms  for  a  few 
moments  and  yet  it  seemed  as  though  it  must  have  been 
in  her  former  incarnation,  when  she  was  afraid  to  acknowl- 


302  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

edge  even  to  herself  her  love  for  him.  In  these  few 
moments  he  had  become  her  lover  as  completely  and  surely 
as  though  they  had  been  engaged  for  many  months.  If 
the  whole  Albergo  full  of  prying  eyes  were  looking  down 
upon  them,  well — let  them  say  that  which  they  say. 

It  was  Carlito's  petitioning  voice  that  told  her  how 
short  a  time  she  had  been  in  Waldo's  arms. 

"Do  tell  him  to  go  away,  Auntie  Zita,  and  stop  bother- 
ing us."  The  child's  eyes  scrutinised  Waldo.  "I  like 
your  face,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  "but  your  big  feet  have 
spoilt  my  castello." 

Waldo  picked  the  child  up  in  his  arms.  "Why,  sonnie," 
he  said,  "I  will  build  you  a  far  better  one.  It  will  be  a 
wonderful  castle  for  a  beautiful  princess.  And  what  do 
you  think  is  the  name  of  the  beautiful  lady?" 

The  child  shook  his  head. 

"I  call  her  Princess  Love ;  you  call  her  Auntie  Zita.  I'm 
really  awfully  sorry  I  spoilt  your  castle,  but  you  see, 
Princess  Love  is  so  quick  that  I  was  afraid  that  she'd 
run  away  if  I  didn't  snatch  her  up  in  my  arms  at  once." 

Carlito  looked  at  him  with  puzzled  eyes.  "Do  you 
really  and  truly  mean  Auntie  Zita  ?" 

"Yes,  your  Auntie  Zita  is  my  Fairy  Princess,  and  I'm 
going  to  build  her  a  beautiful  castle." 

Carlito  put  his  unhealthy  little  hand  in  Zita's.  "Is  that 
true?"  he  said  anxiously.  "Or  is  the  new  man  saying 
these  things  because  I  am  a  little  boy?" 

"It  is  true,  Carlito,  and  the  castle  is  to  be  called  'Castell' 
Amore,'  and  you  shall  come  and  live  with  us.  But  look !" 
she  cried,  "here  comes  your  old  friend."  She  turned  to  her 
lover.  "The  child  worships  Salvatore  and  Salvatore  adores 
the  child.  Carlito  has  really  done  his  spirits  and  general 
health  a  lot  of  good." 

When  Salvatore  saw  them  standing  together  a  look  of 
astonishment  and  at  the  same  time  of  great  satisfaction 
crossed  his  face.  Like  a  flash  of  summer  sunshine  on  a 
Highland  lake,  it  dispersed  its  habitual  melancholy. 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  303 

Waldo  stretched  out  a  hand  to  him.  His  other  was 
clasping  Zita's  waist.  They  were  obviously  declared  lovers. 

"You  can  see  how  things  are,"  Waldo  said  laughingly. 
"I  didn't  lose  any  time  after  I  got  your  message.  I  came 
as  quickly  as  trains  could  carry  me." 

Salvatore's  whole  being  asked  for  an  explanation  as  he 
said,  "Journeys  end  in  lovers'  meetings." 

"Yes — my  journey's  finished,  thanks  to  your  message." 

Salvatore  only  looked  at  him. 

"You  dear  old  thing!"  Zita  said.  "Don't  you  know 
what  happened,  why  Waldo  came  so  quickly?  Tell,  him, 
Waldo,  and  spare  my  .  .  ."  She  stopped.  "Oh, 
Salvatore,  you  are  a  goose!" 

"Why,  I  came  because  your  sister  wrote  and  told  me 
that  your  health  was  pretty  bad,  but  that  you  were  quite 
strong  enough  to  enjoy  a  visit  from  an  old  friend.  She 
was  kind  enough  to  say  that  nothing  would  do  you  so  much 
good  as  my  company." 

Salvatore  gazed  at  Zita,  whose  whole  being  was  rippling 
with  mischievous  happiness. 

"You  sent  that  message  from  me  to  Waldo?  You  wrote 
that  after  asking  my  advice?" 

"Yes,  I  wrote  that  and  a  good  deal  more,  apparently, 
from  what  Waldo  says.  Are  you  glad  or  sorry,  Salvatore? 
Don't  look  so  surprised — you  ought  to  have  known  I'd  do 
it." 

"I  do  hope  you  aren't  sorry,"  Waldo  said  drily,  "for 
I've  come  to  stay.  Zita's  letter  didn't  suggest  a  return 
ticket." 

Salvatore  laughed  happily.  "I  never  knew  Zita  to  do  such 
a  deceitful  thing  before,"  he  said  tenderly.  "All  this  time 
I  have  been  imagining  that  she  had  dismissed  you.  She 
told  me  that  she  didn't  know  if  she  cared  for  you  and  she 
knew  that  she  cared  for  her  freedom  and  her  life  with  me, 
so  I  told  her  that  she  was  not  to  allow  you  to  come  to 
Sicily ;  it  was  not  to  be  the  same  old  game.  I  forbade  it. 
I  said  I  wouldn't  have  it." 


304  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

Waldo  laughed  delightedly. 

"Off  she  went  with  her  head  in  the  air  to  write  the  letter, 
and  we've  never  alluded  to  the  subject  since." 

"What  have  you  to  say  to  that?"  Her  lover's  eyes 
caressed  Zita's  glowing  face. 

"Salvatore  was  treating  me  as  he  used  to  treat  me  when 
he  put  me  to  bed  and  smacked  me  when  I  was  naughty ;  the 
grown-up  Zita  wouldn't  stand  it."  She  linked  her  arm 
affectionately  in  her  brother's.  "You  see,  fratello  mio,  I 
didn't  think  you  were  managing  your  own  affairs  well 
enough  to  allow  you  to  manage  mine." 

Salvatore  freed  himself  from  her  clinging  band.  "Go 
back  to  your  lover,"  he  said  with  mock  harshness.  "It 
seems  to  me  I  managed  yours  extremely  successfully. 
Come,  Carlito,"  he  said  in  the  same  breath,  "we  shall  have 
to  comfort  each  other."  He  picked  up  the  inquisitive 
Carlito. 

The  child's  arms  went  round  Salvatore's  neck.  "The  new 
man's  promised  to  build  a  beautiful  castle  for  Auntie  Zita. 
It's  to  be  called  Castell'  Amore,  and  it  is  to  be  so  big  and  so 
strong  that  it  will  never  fall  down." 

Salvatore  was  nervously  anxious  to  leave  the  lovers, 
whose  welcome  of  his  inopportune  coming  had  been  so 
charming. 

"Bless  you  both,"  he  said  with  mock  lightness.  "I  be- 
lieve Zita  cares  for  you  enough,  Waldo,  to  be  happy  in 
Casa  Salvatore.  But  build  your  castle  and  give  it  deep 
foundations  and  wide  bastions.  Castell'  Amore  must  stand 
the  test  of  age  and  change.  Come  on,  bambino,"  he  spoke 
to  Carlito,  "come  and  let  us  get  a  big  gun  and  a  very  lean 
dog  and  go  and  shoot  a  yellowhammer.  There  is  nothing 
like  a  good  day's  sport  in  .the  mountains  for  settling  the 
nerves  after  a  severe  shock.  We  must  take  a  big  game  bag 
to  hold  the  yellowhammer  and  put  an  eagle's  feather  in  our 
caps."  His  eyes  laughed  back  to  Zita.  "It  will  just  re- 
mind Auntie  Zita  that  Sicily  is  here,  that  Girgenti  is  not 
New  York." 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  305 

As  he  hurried  out  of  sight  Zita  turned  to  her  lover,  whose 
arms  were  ready  for  her. 

"Dear  Salvatore!"  she  said.  "Sicily  is  here,  and  New 
York  is  here,  and  the  whole  wide  world."  She  looked  at 
her  lover  with  melting  eyes.  "And  only  twenty  minutes 
ago  I  didn't  know  that !  I  didn't  know  that  being  in  your 
arms  could  make  me  wonder  why  I  ever  could  have  been 
such  a  fool !" 

"Perhaps  our  happiness  will  bring  him  to  his  senses." 

"Ah,  you  think  like  that?"  Zita's  eyes  looked  eagerly 
up  into  her  lover's. 

"He  will  be  lonely,"  Waldo  said. 

"Desperately  lonely,"  Zita  whispered,  as  her  lips  left  her 
lover's.  Her  sigh  was  self-accusing. 

"It  is  the  best  thing  that  could  happen.  Loneliness  may 
do  for  him  what  commonsense  never  will." 

At  that  moment  Salvatore  was  trying  to  shut  his  eyes  to 
the  picture  of  his  awn  empty  home  when  Zita  had  left  him. 
Her  happiness  must  be  his  only  thought;  he  must  not  let 
her  even  suspect  the  dread  that  filled  his  heart. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

ISCHIA:  six  MONTHS  LATER 

CHRISTINE  was  resting  after  her  hard  day's  work  at  the 
baths.  She  was  still  living  in  Salvatore's  grandmother's 
cottage. 

Her  letters,  which  she  had  just  read,  were  lying  on  the 
table  before  her.  One  was  from  Zita,  who  was  in  Japan. 
Every  sentence  in  the  letter  except  the  one  which  briefly 
alluded  to  her  brother's  loneliness  was  expressive  of  radiant 
happiness.  It  was  signed  "Yours  devotedly,  Gioeonda." 
By  this  Christine  knew  that  life  for  Zita  at  least  was  full 
of  laughter  and  love. 


306  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

She  picked  up  another  letter  which  she  had  already  read 
through  twice ;  she  almost  knew  it  by  heart,  so  keenly  had 
it  hurt  her.  As  her  eyes  scanned  it  her  face  hardened. 

"Hotel  Metropole, 

"Nice. 
"My  Dear  Christine,"  the  letter  ran, 

"I  am  at  present  staying  in  Nice,  as  I  'have  had  to  do  for 
some  winters  for  my  health,  which  has  not  been  at  all  good 
for  the  last  few  years.  I  read  last  spring — in  the  Nice 
edition  of  the  'New  York  Herald' — that  your  husband  had 
been  killed  in  some  disgraceful  affair  in  Sicily.  I  am  thank- 
ful to  say  that  your  name  did  not  appear  in  connection 
with  the  case.  I  have  been  expecting  to  hear  from  you  ever 
since,  but  as  no  letter  has  reached  me,  I  am  going  to  send 
this  through  your  father's  lawyer — I  suppose  he  knows 
your  address. 

"Now  that  you  are  alone  I  feel  I  must  offer  you  a  home, 
as  I  imagine  your  husband  had  nothing  to  leave  you.  If  he 
has  provided  for  you  and  if  all  that  I  prophesied  did  not 
come  true,  I  shall  only  be  too  glad  to  own  that  I  was  in  the 
wrong  and  that  I  misjudged  him.  You  could  make  your- 
self very  useful  to  me  in  my  present  state  of  health,  so  do 
not  hesitate  to  accept  the  home  I  am  offering  to  you.  I 
cannot  help  thinking  that  if  your  marriage  had  been  as 
happy  and  successful  as  you  expected  it  to  be,  you  would 
have  looked  up  some  of  your  old  friends  and  relations, 
instead  of  carefully  hiding  yourself  away  in  some  out-of- 
the-way  corner  as  you  have  done,  ever  since  the  day  you 
married  Andrea  Zarano.  Hoping  to  hear  from  you  soon, 
"I  remain,  your  affectionate  aunt, 

"HARRIET  BULLOCK." 

"Poor  Aunt  Harriet !"  Christine  said,  as  she  threw  down 
the  letter  as  something  unclean  and  defiling.  "Just  as  if  I 
wouldn't  rather  beg  my  bread  than  accept  one  crust  from 
your  hands !  Fancy  telling  her  that  she  was  right — that 
the  Christine  Lovat  who  stood  before  her  in  her  night-dress 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  307 

in  Girgenti  that  night,  and  openly  defied  her  for  the  first 
time,  was  a  young  fool !  Fancy  acknowledging  to  a  woman 
like  that  that  what  she  prophesied  and  a  vast  deal  more 
had  come  true!  And  picture  her  amazement  if  I  told  her 
that  even  after  that  lesson — as  she  would  call  it — I  wanted 
to  marry  another  'foreigner,'  and  that  'foreigner'  the 
humble  curio-dealer  Salvatore,  the  youth  who  lived  on 
'squeezes.' ' 

Christine's  eyes  travelled  to  the  photograph  of  Salvatore 
which  hung  on  her  cottage  walls.  His  smile  greeted  her 
every  time  she  opened  the  door.  It  Avas  her  "salve." 

"But  this  time  my  husband  will  not  be  a  pauper,  Aunt 
Harriet.  Indeed,"  she  said  wistfully,  "I  almost  wish  Salva- 
tore was  poor — or,  at  least,  not  so  awfully  rich — so  that  I 
might  prove  to  him  that  if  he  hadn't  a  lira  in  the  world  I 
should  marry  him  just  as  gladly!  Being  poor  in  Ischia 
hasn't  made  me  hate  poverty."  She  looked  round  her 
simply  furnished  home.  Her  eyes  softened. 

It  had  not  made  her  hate  poverty  because  Salvatore  had 
made  her  two-roomed  cottage  sacred.  His  spirit  communed 
with  her  there.  If  she  returned  to  her  aunt,  what  would  it 
mean?  Comfort  and  luxury,  but  in  luxury's  train  would 
come  vulgarity,  loss  of  spiritual  and  artistic  perception, 
and  more  important  than  all,  loss  of  close  association  with 
all  that  she  prized  most  in  life. 

It  is  true  that  almost  a  year  had  passed  since  her  hus- 
band's death,  and  Salvatore  had  neither  written  to  her  nor 
sent  her  any  message  through  Zita.  And  yet,  Christine, 
for  no  better  reason  than  what  her  super-senses  told  her, 
was  confident  that  some  day  he  would  come  and  claim  her. 
She  did  not  allow  herself  to  think  how  long  it  might  take 
to  bring  him  to  her ;  always  she  drove  out  the  thought  with 
hard  work.  Her  confidence  in  the  belief  that  he  would 
eventually  come  gave  her  an  almost  supernatural  physical 
strength,  while  spiritually  she  was  contented  to  await  her 
triumph. 

She  had  become  very  philosophical  in  her  acceptance  of 


308  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

life.  She  could  review  all  its  tragedies  and  sorrows  in  a 
well-balanced  and  critical  fashion — that  is  to  say,  on  her 
best  days.  She  had  her  black-letter  days  as  well,  but  she 
had  not  grown  old  on  regrets.  Like  a  good  Scot  she  could 
fight  with  her  back  to  the  wall,  fight  as  desperately  as  any 
kilted  soldier  of  her  race ;  she  was  the  sort  of  fighter  who 
feels  stimulated  and  not  unnerved  by  a  losing  game.  She 
had  the  enviable  quality  of  getting  the  best  out  of  the 
worst  and  holding  out  her  arms  to  the  sun. 

Her  aunt's  letter  had  to  be  answered;  and  she  would 
enjoy  answering  it  and  trying  to  put  into  it  as  many  sharp 
stings  as  Mrs.  Bullock  had  contrived  to  put  into  hers.  The 
Christian  sentiment,  "turn  your  other  cheek  to  the  smiter," 
did  not  appeal  to  Christine;  she  thoroughly  enjoyed  slap- 
ping the  smiter's  cheek  until  it  was  redder  than  her  own. 
She  was  not  built  on  saintly  lines ;  her  halo  would  not  be 
worn  for  meekness. 

Before  the  letter  was  written  or  even  begun,  a  knock 
came  to  the  door.  It  was  Pepino  Ignazio,  the  cab-driver, 
and  the  father  of  little  Ninfa,  upon  whose  contorted  limbs 
Christine  had  performed  miracles.  The  child's  name  was 
no  longer  a  cruel  jest;  she  could  run  about  and  enjoy  her- 
self almost  as  freely  as  any  other  of  the  black-eyed, 
straight-limbed  children  who  played  about  the  streets  and 
rocks  like  sparrows.  Pepino  Ignazio's  light  victoria,  if 
such  a  grand  name  could  be  given  to  his  small  vettura,  was 
always  at  Christine's  disposal  after  his  day's  work  was 
done.  He  had  now  called  at  her  cottage  to  ask  her  if  she 
would  like  to  take  a  drive,  to  breathe  "1'aria  fresca,"  as  he 
described  it. 

Christine  refused  the  man's  offer  on  the  score  of  having 
important  letters  to  write.  She  pointed  to  her  cor- 
respondence, which  satisfied  the  amazed  Pepino,  who 
only  received  one  letter  a  year,  from  his  brother  in 
California. 

Pepino's  arrival  and  departure  drove  Christine's  mind 
back  into  reverie ;  her  aunt's  letter  was  forgotten.  Uncon- 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  309 

sciously  there  rose  up  before  her  the  vision  of  the  greatest 
and  wildest  drive  Pepino  had  ever  taken  her. 

It  was  the  day  after  her  abrupt  return  to  the  Island 
from  Sicily,  when  her  heart  was  bitter  and  sore,  when 
Salvatore's  behaviour  had  seemed  to  her  unnecessarily 
cruel  and  unnatural.  It  was  a  day  when  a  drive  over  the 
mountain  wildness  of  the  volcanic  Island  would  have  seemed 
to  most  people  an  act  of  madness.  To  Christine  it  was 
what  the  condition  of  her  mind  needed.  She  wished  to 
drive  right  into  the  mists  and  storm-shrouded  mountains, 
to  feel  the  passion  of  Nature  and  the  driving  rain  scourg- 
ing her  cheeks. 

How  emblematic  of  her  life  the  day  now  seemed  to  her! 
Truly,  mists  still  shrouded  her  future,  but  her  certainty  of 
eventual  happiness  was  as  complete  as  her  belief  had  been 
that  day  that  at  mezzo  giorno  the  rain  would  cease  and  the 
sun  would  shine  again. 

She  roused  herself;  her  letter  to  her  aunt  must  be  written. 
She  rose  from  her  seat  and  got  her  letter-pad.  The  letter 
was  complete  in  her  brain;  the  writing  of  it  did  not  take 
her  long: 

"My  Dear  Aunt  Harriet, 

"Thank  you  very  much  for  your  offer  of  a  home.  'M.y 
husband's  death  has  left  me  very  much  better  off  than  you 
imagine,  so  I  am  thankful  to  say  that  my  future  need 
cause  you  no  anxiety. 

"I  regret  to  hear  that  your  health  is  troubling  you.  The 
alkaline  and  saline  baths  of  Ischia  work  wonderful  cures, 
both  for  sciatica  and  rheumatism.  There  are  some  springs 
in  the  sea  here  too  hot  to  put  one's  foot  into.  I  remember 
that  you  used  to  suffer  from  rheumatism — perhaps  these 
baths  would  cure  you? 

*'I  remain, 

"Your  affectionate  niece, 

"CHEISTINE  ZAEANO." 

"That's  pretty  nasty,"  she  said  as  she  read  the  letter 


310  A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES 

over.  "It  doesn't  tell  her  much  and  it's  quite  grateful 
enough  for  all  she  ever  did  for  me !  Probably  she  is  only 
offering  me  a  home  now,  because  she  thinks  I  could  be  of 
use  to  her." 

Before  the  letter  was  addressed  and  stamped,  a  shrill 
whistle  announced  the  arrival  of  the  five  o'clock  steamer 
from  Naples.  Christine  looked  at  her  clock. 

"Either  the  boat  is  early  or  my  clock  is  slow,"  she  said. 
"What  an  age  I  have  been  idling !" 

She  put  away  her  writing-pad  and  crossed  the  passage  to 
her  bedroom.  She  looked  at  herself  in  the  small  glass. 
Was  she  tidy  enough  to  go  out,  or  must  she  change  her 
dress?  She  decided  to  change  it.  Nothing  kills  youth  in  a 
woman  more  quickly  than  a  disregard  for  her  personal 
appearance.  ,  Christine  fought  against  it. 

When  her  dress  was  changed  she  discovered  that  there 
was  a  hole  in  her  stocking  which  showed  just  above  the 
heel  of  her  shoe.  It,  too,  must  be  changed.  When  at  last 
she  was  ready  to  put  on  her  hat,  a  second  knock  came  to 
the  front  door. 

"Oh,  bother  it!"  she  said.  "Someone  else  come  to  use 
up  my  precious  time." 

"Avanti!"  she  called  out  impatiently.  She  listened  to 
hear  if  she  could  recognise  the  step.  "Please  wait,"  she 
said.  "I  shall  be  ready  in  two  minutes."  Her  impatience 
had  fled,  for  after  all  this  second  delay  was  her  own  fault. 
She  had  wasted  time  day-dreaming,  and  it  was  probably  the 
grateful  parent  of  some  patient  whom  she  was  treating 
come  with  an  offering  of  eggs  or  a  chicken  or  a  fine  cake 
from  Naples. 

"Who  is  it?"  sihe  asked,  as  she  crossed  the  dividing 
passage.  This  time  her  voice  was  cheerfully  inviting. 

"It  is  me,  Christine,  your  Salvatore !" 

As  he  spoke  a  cry  rang  through  the  cottage.  It  carried 
the  woman's  soul  to  the  man  who  at  last  had  come  for  her. 
It  bore  her  into  his  arms.  It  told  him  all  that  he  hungered 
to  know. 


A  MENDER  OF  IMAGES  311 

"It  is  your  own  Salvatore,  donna  mia,  your  own  Salva- 
tore.  He  is  here,  he  has  come  for  you." 

The  words  were  whispered  into  her  ears  while  their  hearts 
were  beating  together.  His  lips  stifled  the  words  she  tried 
to  say.  "Oh,  Salvatore  mio !  Salvatore  mio !  It  can't  be 
true !  It  can't  be  Salvatore,  not  lui  stesso !" 

He  held  her  more  closely.  "Yes,  it  is  himself,  it  is  your 
own  Salvatore,  Primavera.  Will  you  let  him  stay  or  has  he 
come  too  late?" 

Christine's  body,  so  moth-like  in  its  lightness,  so  ex- 
quisite in  its  passion,  clung  to  him.  It  assured  him  that 
he  must  never  go  away,  never,  never  again.  He  held  her 
closer  and  still  closer.  The  hunger  of  years  was  in  his 
embrace.  There  was  surely  no  material  woman  to  kill,  if 
Love  could  kill.  She  was  the  spirit  of  Love  clothed  with 
the  sweet  fragrance  of  woman. 

"Donna  mia,"  he  murmured,  "cara  Signora,  cara,  cara 
Signora!"  These  were  the  only  words  he  whispered,  for 
they  were  the  dearest  of  all  his  dear  names  for  her.  They 
were  to  carry  them  back  to  the  young  world  of  their  ideals, 
to  the  wonderful  days  in  the  Laughing  Land  when  the 
poor  Mender  of  Images  had  given  her  his  heart  for  all 
time. 

A  silence  more  golden  than  the  marigolds,  which  with  the 
first  breath  of  spring  carpet  the  land  they  both  loved,  spoke 
to  them  in  melodies  unheard.  It  took  them  far  away. 
Together  they  were  on  dangerous  ground  again ;  they  had 
forgotten  the  jealousy  of  the  forsaken  gods.  They  were 
very  far  away,  these  two,  from  Isola  d'Ischia,  which  at  that 
particular  moment  was  occupied  with  the  steamer  traffic. 

The  little  island  did  not  know  that  the  boat  from  Naples 
had  brought  Heaven  before  death  to  the  man  and  the 
woman  in  the  whitewashed  cottage  who  stood  locked  in  each 
other's  arms.  Isola  d'Ischia  did  not  understand  that  the 
coming  of  the  evening  boat  had  ended  the  tragedy  of  Casa 
Salvatore. 

FINIS 


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